


The Euthonian Estate

by Lightbringer34



Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Give the Miller some good times 2019, Going to name all the NPCs, I can't believe I forgot shovels AND trinkets, In which I expand on the mission structures to tell stories, M/M, Watch the Heir become a Mess, You learn who you are when you're deep in the earth with one torch left and no food
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:55:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 31,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21754849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightbringer34/pseuds/Lightbringer34
Summary: You know the contours of the story. An Heir summoned, an Evil vanquished, a fortune won, and a world saved. But the Ancestor proved some things last beyond death, beyond time, space, and sanity. What began as the Heir’s private diary has developed a mind of its own. And it has its own stories to tell...I haven't forgotten this one, just trying to work out a character. I will finish it.
Relationships: Everybody gets busy in DD, Grave Robber/Highwayman (Darkest Dungeon), Grave Robber/Multiple People Really, Grave Robber/Plague Doctor (Darkest Dungeon), Hellion/Leper, Jester/Arbalest
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	1. Our Venerable House

**Author's Note:**

> I plan to rewrite/expand/properly separate the storylines here after finals. Can’t wait for Darkest Dungeon 2!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An Heir learns of a death in the family, two layabouts find a job, and the Caretaker buys a scarf.

Week 10 in the Year of our Light 1552, Thursday the 6th.  
I received a letter from Grandfather today, the first in two decades. He had always been careful to follow the activities of his many descendants, for he was always a man who valued his family. Speaking now from a position of adulthood, I realize it was because as fellow nobles, we were one of the few who could stand and speak equally with him. Father taught me to never let the feelings of less enobled Frenchmen encumber me upon the road of life, but Grandfather was different. He cared for those folk under his protection and was often found wandering the streets or tucked in the tavern, conversing with all manner of folk. He was charismatic and kind, a fact which no doubt led to his preponderance of children, legitimate and otherwise. Father held the man in very low esteem, but I’d liked him.  
We only visited the ancestral Euthonian Estate once. Tucked deep within the countryside in the foothills of the Alps, two week’s ride from Grenoble, it was clear the comforts of civilization only had a passing acquaintance with the small villages along the road. The road itself was bumpy, and Father grim-faced and silent the whole way as Grandfather’s caretaker sent us into the Weald. I remember being amazed at the variety of life glimpsed through the windows, deer, rabbits, and even a lone wolf could be seen, its gaze etched into my memory even as my younger brother pulled me away to take the prime viewing spot himself.  
Grandfather welcomed us with open arms and a hearty laugh that echoed around the town square. Townsfolk bustled around, trying to pretend they were not staring, but Grandfather waved cheerfully at them and started us on the long walk up the grassy hill to the Estate proper. I’d started my last year of collège, preparing for the national exam, and he seemed genuinely interested in my own enthusiasm for ancient history, responding to my own questions with enthusiasm that had Mother giggling and even Father pull a tight-lipped smile. I spent the week in a delirium of excitement, for the Estate had many things to interest one of that age, no matter how much Mother or Father disapproved. I spent a great deal of time wandering through the mausoleum vaults built into the hill itself, hefting a lantern as the Caretaker explained in his thin, kindly voice who each of the stone busts or tapestries were meant to represent. He even showed me a secret passageway that led to the basement of the Church of Light all the way back in the village! My brother, on the other hand, spent a great deal of time carousing with the houndmaster and his basset hounds, though he stayed well clear of the massive black mastiff, though looking back, I suspect he was more fearful of Father’s disapproval and Mother’s fear than in the beast itself. 

I asked Father several times over the years why we could not return to the Estate, and each time, he’d gravely intoned that Grandfather was entirely too familiar with his people and nothing good would come of it. It was some time before I realized what that truly meant, but I hold my half-brothers and sisters no ill will. I remain first in line to claim the Estate. I suppose that’s why Grandfather sent me this letter before his death.

The old man killed himself.

[An inkstain and wrinkled parchment blot out the next few words]

-imagine things were truly that bad. He’d spent his way across several influential sessions of the King’s court, and a great many followed him back to the Estate, years ago, but I’d never imagined someone who loved life that much would end it so harshly! Father, two years dead of tuberculosis, would not have the Euthonian name dragged through the mud like this. I must go and set right what I can. I’ve taken some of my research grant from the crown and thrown together a field assignment on those ancestral catacombs which will satisfy Dean Baquet for a month or so. I leave on the morrow.

Week 10 in the Year of our Light 1552, Friday the 7th.

I’ve made great time, largely thanks to these horses who up until now have run like the wind. I sent word ahead and the Caretaker came to meet me at Courivage a boarding house a week from the Estate. I must confess I was shocked to see the kind man I remembered now positively ancient and wizned underneath his scarf. There had been some chill in the early morning air, to be sure, but the man was dressed as if we were still in deep snows, scarf, overcoat and all. He giggled incessantly and I must confess to have snapped at him quite harshly, emphasizing that the death of my Grandfather, his Master, was not a joking matter. His eyes widened, but the laughter redoubled in strength and volume, so the entire stable-yard was staring at us. I bundled him off to my room and near-to strangled him with his own scarf before his visage forced me back.  
The man I once knew is no more, his face a vile pastiche of mirth. From what he has told me, it has been fixed that way, ever since, The Incident. I capitalize those letters to underscore the gravity of what I am about to impart. What positive qualities my Grandfather possessed, had fled him after his dalliance with Court. The Caretaker spoke in vagaries and variations, but from what he said and what the letter spoke of, it is clear both the Euthonian fortune and his mind wasted away in that lonely house, no matter how many wenches he kept in his bed. In the end, the town turned against him and he’d hired all manner of disreputable cutthroats to keep order and to keep him alive in equal measure. Many of them still menaced the Estate itself, seeking the payment he’d promised them even as the family coffers ran dry. I’m told he took to selling everything he could get his hands on before the end.  
I hesitate to speak of it, but I must, for History’s sake. The bandits, finally realizing there would be no promised reward, and the workmen likewise in revolt, ransacked the town Grandfather had professed to love even as the villagers led a mob to separate their Lord’s head from his shoulders. The musket ball from his own pistol did the job for them and in retaliation, the Estate was set aflame. Now, the people huddle in the ruins of their homes as the bandits have scattered across the countryside in search of gold, women, or whatever else their kind cares to focus on. I still must visit the Estate, to see the wreckage of lives and livelihood myself and put right what I can. It is my duty to my House and the people Grandfather wronged. Still, to wander into such an environ is begging for a slit throat and a stolen purse. There were a few disreputable characters lounging in the corners of the common room at lunch. Perhaps, some protection can be found there…

Week 11 in the Year of our Light 1552, Saturday the 15th of March-Week 1 at The Estate

I write this entry thoroughly inebriated and thoroughly ensconced in the safety of the Hamlet tavern, The Sodden Wyrm. I’d been excited when I’d managed to locate a genuine Crusade veteran halfway down the bar, and even more enthusiastic that he was willing to take my coin for protection. He was a strong man, perhaps just past the prime of his life, with suggestions of grey in his dark beard and his weathered face spoke of the difficulties of campaigning even if his mouth would not.  
I gained another hanger-on, Dismas, a lout who’d been skulking about and he muscled his way in, asserting that he was familiar with the habits of bandits around these parts. Reynauld and I interrogated him quite thoroughly, the Crusader pinning the wiry little man to the wall to make his point about the foolishness of any trickery. Dismas, as it turned out, was no catspaw or Judas, but something of a wandering pilgrim. He admitted that he had been a highwayman, after we’d paid for another mug of ale, that scoundrel, but said he’d forsook that life in search of redemption, as ridiculous as that notion might be for someone like him. He alone asked me if I was a mon or a woman, admitting he couldn’t quite tell. I was quite put upon and told him to store his dirk somewhere quite unbecoming of a noble, but he shrugged and carried on drinking nonetheless. To my surprise, Reynauld managed to persuade him to join us, citing some verse of the Canticles of Joshua I’d missed. I transcribe it here now: “The Light of redemption is naught but the process of seeking. Verse 3, Canticle 5.”

Whatever it meant, it convinced Dismas to join us for the journey. I hadn’t taken the man for one to spend time in the Church, but he stayed with us, even in dire circumstances. Circumstances, I must admit, came about by way of the Caretaker, damn his eternal smile!  
Through some madness or inebriation, he caused the horses to buck, throwing the carriage, and all inside, off the road and into the woods. The trees, or rather the weald, was much changed from that vision of fecundity in my childhood. The trees had darkened, gnarled trunks reaching for the sky like the gasping fingers of a drowning man, while the wildlife had disappeared entirely. Whether hunted to extinction by the bandits or my Grandfather, I do not know. The only living things we encountered on our march to the Hamlet were bandits of great size and a murderous nature. 

I am not ashamed to admit I hid from the fighting. Reynauld and Dismas turned out to make a brutally elegant pair, while I lurked in the thorny underbrush to avoid attention. It is one thing to read accounts, even firsthand, of death in battle, it is another to listen a man gasp and gurgle as he tries to hold his lifeblood within his neck, or to see a mountain of a man fall, cleaved shoulder to hip by Reynauld’s sword. Attempting to recover some of my dignity, I asked if they both were alright, and for the most part, they were. Reynauld’s armor had protected against the leader’s whip, but one of the others had gotten a dagger into the shoulder joint and it was bleeding profusely. I made to help, but Dismas shoved me away, though not unkindly. He’d had experience treating such wounds and suggested the Crusader refrain from lifting his arms above shoulder-height to prevent more bleeding. Though Reynauld grumbled something about being able to fight through worse wounds than this, Dismas ignored the man and together we carried him into the Hamlet.

Even after hearing the stories, I was not prepared to see the sorry state the Hamlet or the Euthonian Estate was in. Most of the fields around us were fallow or were blocked from casual sight by vast stones etched in curious celestial markings, the houses were gutted or fire-blackened. The town square was in ruins and Grandfather’s statue had been systematically smashed down to little more than boots rendered in stone. Still, we dragged Reynauld into the first building that showed signs of life, only for it to be a drinking-house doing brisk business. The townsfolk looked at not with surprise, but with a weary resignation that told me how bad things had gotten. To her credit, the bar-maid, a young lass with dark curly locks, bustled out and wrapped Reynauld’s wound with the same rag she’d been using to clean mugs, but Dismas said he’d live. I am forced to allow for my compatriot’s experience in these matters, so here I now sit, swallowing the swill they call wine here in the Sodden Wyrm. Judging by the state of things, I shall be in for a great deal more work than I ever suspected back in Lyon.

Week 2 at the Euthonian Estate in the Year of our Light 1552.

After waking up in a disconcertingly itchy bed (I suspect lice) in the attic of the Sodden Wyrm, Dismas and I set out to take a measure of the Hamlet’s inhabitants. I am glad I had Dismas with me, because several, upon seeing my face, reacted violently. Some tried to flee, some attacked me with chairs, and one wretch came at me with a hammer! Dismas ended that one quickly with a thrust into the armpit, only after the fellow dealt me a grievous blow across the skull that had my ears ringing. To his credit, the highwayman was asking after my company quite quickly, but I’d taken part in my fair share of academic brawls over Norman antiquities and stayed on my feet long enough to finish our rounds. 

Suffice it to say, the Hamlet is in a sorry state. The Sodden Wyrm is still active because the bartender still serves alcohol and is sufficiently strong enough to stop any foolish bandits or townsfolk from trying to ransack the bar lock, stock, and barrel. His daughter is the one who bandaged up Reynauld, and for what it’s worth, I’ve told her she will be rewarded somehow. The funds I’d scrounged up for travel suddenly seem paltry in comparison and I have no doubt my compatriots in the Economics department would let me forget it. A thousand and odd ducats for the three of us to stay the night? Inconceivable!

But time, scarcity, and needs make beggars of us all, as they say, so I’ve paid the bartender with a mind to renovating one of the townhouses into a communal hall as soon as possible. It will do the people good to see one of the Euthonians trying to put their Ancestor’s deeds to right, though based on their reactions today, we will need to do a great deal to bring the people to our side.

We. I’m already indulging in plurals, when it is a miracle both my men have stuck this far with me already. Dismas is an admitted opportunistic cutthroat, though he is supposedly trying to be a better man, and Reynauld is a pious enigma. After he regained consciousness, he said not two words to me, but has disappeared searching for the local Church of Light. Perhaps he wishes to wash his soul of the murders he committed along the old road? For my part, I am inclined to absolve him, as those murders were committed in my defense, but Father always said, the religious live by their own set of Byzantine rules, the Light most of all.

Some luck at last! The Caretaker finally dragged the wheelhouse into the Hamlet late in the day, looking soaked after the earlier rainstorm and appropriately miserable at having lost Me, but in recompense, he managed to save two other unworthies from the attentions of bandits as well. May the Light see fit to save him and his scarf dry quickly! Such others proved to be a doctor by the name of Carter, wearing the plague masks of elder days and a researcher cut from mine own cloth named Ballique. I dipped into my research funds once more and bought both a pint so they could be convinced to stay and not take the first carriage out of here. By my pen, I thought it all went rather well. Carter had been searching in the Weald for powerful chemical regents for some glass contraption she seeks to test out, while Ballique could not provide a clear answer for her presence. Based on her clothing, I suspect she is a peon sent by the university to make sure their grant money is not wasted, so I must send her back to Lyon with some etchings as fast as possible to prove my honesty. My funds are already beginning to stretch thin, as I’ve ordered the renovation of the longhouse and the glint of gold was enough to motivate several strong-backed swarthies to make the necessary repairs. I suspect, however, that I will be here much longer than I had initially planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: There will be some period-typical prejudices, but I've avoided using some of the slurs commonly seen in dialogue. It serves no purpose beyond shock value, imo, though there will be allusions to them. The endangered state of the Hamlet has made the townsfolk and eventually the Heir consider options they would not otherwise. 
> 
> I've deliberately left the gender of the Heir ambiguous, though their mode of dress is unusual for the time, it is strictly practical.  
> I have a bad habit of naming my heroes after various properties according to their dress, personality, or just because it's a fun name. Many of Dismas's nicknames are what the characters actually are named in-game, he's an inveterate nicknamer.
> 
> Rest assured, this fic will be completed, I have everything all mapped out. Just don't know how many chapters it divide into.


	2. Beginnings, Beguilings.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Heir finds out the Estate is more than they'd bargained for, Dismas makes a mistake, and the Heir finds a new line of work.

Week 3:  
Necromancy.

Light-blasted necromancy. That’s what my Grandfather, the Ancestor has been up to on his thrice-damned hill. May the Light scourge him and his soul for eternity!

I ventured up there with a now-recovered Reynauld, Dismas, Carter the masked doctor, and Ballique, the latter of whom has been nicknamed “Ball-Stabber” by Dismas after she panicked and tried to stab a skeleton in the hips, where no flesh was present. I’d intended to amble in, make a few quick rubbings or sketches of the most prominent members of our Euthonian line and amble out. However, it is clear the walking dead care not for what any of the living wish, for they assaulted us as soon as we’d entered the ruins of my former manse. To say we were shaken would be an understatement, though I’d like to think we rallied quite well. Dismas’s weapons proved that a musket ball and dirk have the same effect on the undead as they do on the living, without of course, the inhibition of flesh to annoy the skeletons. Reynauld’s sword proved quite effective, the lesser skeletons, mere skin and bone, collapsing back into death at its touch. When I pressed him, he merely admitted he’d had the sword blessed by the Bishop of Avignon before setting out on Crusade those many years ago. If this is true, I may yet pay to rebuild the entire Abbey of Light in the village! 

The item Doctor Carter wished to test proved to be an acid of incredible quality and speed, for it dissolved the ligaments and bones of the undead as we watched. Carter admitted its purpose was not what she had in mind when crafting the dissection formulae,but agreed to stay in the Hamlet for the time being. I confess, this is in large part a result of the enormous emerald Ballique managed to fish out of a devotional cubbyhole while the rest of us were trying to dodge a muscled bone-clad workman now devoted to some pagan idol. She believed there may be many such treasures hidden around the Estate and that even my Ancestor could not have sold them all. I would ask her how she knows such things of my Estate, (my Estate, how quickly I take ownership of this hunk or stone and curses) but she had such a queer expression I dare not probe further for now, at least, not without Dismas at my side.

Amazing how quickly I come to rely on people the wider world would have rightly fashioned as thugs or criminals, but here they are comrades. Turns out fighting shambling abominations against the Light makes fast friends. Carter admitted to me she is not properly a Doctor of Medicine, having been expelled from the Institut de France after an Altercation with her professor. I detect in her words the same unconscious capitalization and avoidance the Caretaker used to discuss “The Incident” which cost my Ancestor his life. Still, she seems a solid enough sort, for a woman interested in Death, rather than Life, as is her natural wont. Additionally, I have no knowledge of this “Institut” but the way she spoke of it, I dare not appear ignorant, so blinkered and provincial I would seem in comparison to herself. With my gold dwindling and profusion of suspicious townsfolk, education may be all that separates me from the rabble Father so despised.

Week 5-Year 1552

We have been busy, we “Adventurers”. The Caretaker, at my direction, has driven his horses far and wide in search of suitable or not-so-suitable individuals who would help me set the Euthonian Estate right. I gave him the emerald Ballique found as a visible incentive and have been rewarded with a steady stream of supplicants seeking to join our “noble crusade”: as Reynauld puts it. 

The man continues to be an enigma. He managed to rouse the abbott of the Church into holding weekly services again and has corralled the unruly bunch of mercenaries and outcasts around us into a semblance of order. The longhouse I reconstructed has been doubled and will serve as barracks for the soldiers in this Crusade, according to him. A pious and genuine man, undoubtedly. And yet, he is not the glowing agent of the Light he pretends to be. I caught him stuffing a considerable fistful of gold and gewgaws into his pockets when we searched the cliffs below the Estate, yet he said nothing when the time came to divide the spoils. I mentioned it to Dismas and he promised to sort it out, though I urged him to keep Reynauld in fighting shape, or at least presentable enough to continue his command. For there is no doubt, we are in command here, in the Hamlet, at the head of a Crusade of some sort. I was uncomfortable calling it that, but based upon the Things we are fighting, it may be worth being called the 10th Crusade.

On that depressing note it is clear my Ancestor (a sobriquet the villagers gave him in lieu of his name) has been involved in far more than mere necromancy. Mere necromancy! How quickly the tide turns, one’s priorities shift from a vaguely plausible paper for Dean Baquet to the suppression of forces beyond the ken of man. In searching the boundaries of the Estate, my group (party? Platoon?) and I were ambushed by foul aquatic creatures that walked in the shape of men. Foul stink, scales, and yellow teeth all marked them as distinctly inhuman, even as they tore the throats from both my hired man and a nun who’d been swept away by Reynauld’s stirring speech to the abbot. [An ink-stain betrays a pen lost in thought] 

Rathberger his name was, from the Northern principalities, beyond the bounds of France. He’d said before the mission he sent word for his apprentice and I dread having to tell the boy of his mentor’s death. Father and son? Perhaps, though I fear such a prospect. The warmth in his voice as he described the boy’s catch of a few petty thieves was beyond that of mere mentoral approval, though I am afraid with Father as a reference I will never be as good a judge of relationships, but I digress. Speaking to Reynauld and the Abbott of Sister Vernould’s death was hard enough, but Carter and I managed to make sure the fiends were driven back from her body enough to slaughter them properly. She in turn, will be buried with the appropriate rights in the graveyard, but just in case, I plan to nail the coffin lid down. No necromancer will touch this Hamlet while an Euthonian still draws breath! 

Week 6, Year of our Light 1552.

Rathberger’s apprentice Tally-Ho arrived today. He is refreshingly enthusiastic and avenged his master with the help of Fair Aria the Arbalest, Barristan an old Soldier acquaintance of Reynauld’s and Stalwart Sam, a man with experience in the occult though I doubt it's his real name. Probably something longer and of an Arabic lilt. They tore through the fish-creatures hidden in the watery caves below the manor and I joined them with aplomb. My colleagues would be frightened to see how easily I wield a dagger now, as easily as I still wield a pen, but needs have forced violent acts upon me. The townsfolk have already begun to refer to me as “The Heir” a sobriquet I am relieved to hear, as it spares me more infuriating questions of my gender and modes of dress. With such horrors as the undead, the eldritch, and the all-too-human beating at the boundaries of the Hamlet, they have the temerity to ask about such inconsequential matters? Such foolishness! 

Still, their naming of me as “The Heir” is both comforting and worrying in equal measure. I have taken to spending my nights in the attic above the Sodden Wyrm, dragging in a fire-blackened desk we found in the ruins of the Estate, drawing up land allotments and notes of credit with the goal of setting things right. Some of the townsfolk think me a fool, others are grateful for the security of the night, with less fear of creatures crawling in their windows and stealing their children. Still, the remains of the statue lie there behind the well, a potent reminder of what will happen if I make too many demands upon the people of the Hamlet. It is already a great deal to ask of them, to tolerate the presence of mercenaries and vagabonds who have sworn themselves to me in blood and coin. 

Fortunately, tensions have not risen high enough to become a cause for worry, though that is largely a result of our skillful contracts and diplomacy. I’ve created something of a mix between a contract and a deed, promising payment, land, or a requested item for those worthies and wretches who stumble into the Hamlet weekly off of the Caretaker’s coach. Each man and woman (so many women, Mother would be astonished at such impropriety) has their price and I am prepared to pay it, if I can. As a Lord, now, I can do a great deal. The funds flowing in from our frequent expeditions to the Manor have allowed me a line of credit, however distant, with one of the Paris bankhouses, leaning chiefly on the reputation of my late Father to secure the loan. With such money, I have been able to turn the Sodden Wyrm into a house of debauchery my parents would have been scandalized to see me near, never mind running.

It is…not entirely distasteful, largely because everything offered has been in response to my mercenaries, who cried out for distraction, for dalliance, for anything to distract them, all the Hamlet really, from the reality of deathless, vigilant Things up the hill ever seeking to drag us down to share their fate. When you have stared into a deathless skull and seen it throw scalding wine in your face, a tavern wench or a round of dice does not seem so grave a sin.

Morapio, the vast Moorish bartender of the Sodden Warm, objected to the addition of a bawdy-house to his reputable establishment, but I bought the entire third floor of the house for its use and fashioned it with all manner of curtains, pillows and such. Far more expensive, or troubling was negotiating with those men and women who had already begun to sell themselves in their desperation. They were a sorry lot, sunken faces and hollowed eyes masked by garish makeup or revealing rags which attempted to hide poverty through sheer impropriety. I brought them into the fold easily, promising them protection from the brigands who had been their former clientele and enough up front to leave the profession, should they wish it. While most fled the hamlet for better climes without a glance, one of the women, Marchés, decided to stay and run the business for me. It was a relief to not have to bother any more with such wretched business, but the entire endeavor has exhausted my remaining funds, which leaves the excavations of the manor as my sole income.

This Estate better be worth it.

Week 8 and 9 at the Euthonian Estate, in the Year of Our Light 1552.

I encountered a most wild woman leaping off the carriage roof this morn. Declaring the winds “hells better than sharing a sock with those stuffed scudders”, she introduced herself to me as Fiona, an outcast from one of the Celt Tribes in the North. I’d studied those countrymen from before France itself existed and assumed she must’ve been some girl from the brothel out for a spot of play, but her corded muscles and bladed weapon assured me she was no maiden of the night. Or if she was, this maiden had claws. Sufficiently taken aback, I ordered her into combat alongside several of my experienced fighters, to take her measure or to carry her body back if she proved false. Confident in their growing skills, Tally-Ho, Carter, Stalwart Sam, and Fiona slaughtered an apprentice necromancer in the ruins, one who had been learning at the feet of whatever master it served. Unfortunately, Carter became terrified upon witnessing the Necromancer’s fearsome visage and required extensive doses of morphine to calm them. Stalwart Sam likewise had late-onset PTSD triggered by a return visit to the Ruins the following week and recovered in the Brothel, reaching such heights of debauchery, he disappeared from the Hamlet. However, Ballique and Fair Aria debated if his disappearance was out of shame or discovery of new and licentious pleasures from Marchés. 

As of late, it has become a popular game among my mercenaries and the denizens of the Hamlet to guess where each one of the latest adventuring party will venture off to. Despite Dismas’s best efforts, Reynauld has taken to keeping a portion of our fidings for himself, squirreling it away behind a stone of the abbey when he goes to pray. I wanted to cut off two of his fingers and be done with it, but Dismas cautioned against it. Soon he will fill the small space he has created for himself, and then he will have to decide if such gold is enough or if he should gain more. If the latter, I intend to make a public example of him, as Father did to the kitchen thief in my youth. Such a violent example is not to my tastes, but standards must be maintained, if only to separate our expeditions from the bandits the townsfolk so fear. 

On another note, it turns out the man who menaced me with a hammer several weeks ago was in fact the town blacksmith! He’d been dead and buried for weeks before anyone brought this to my attention, thinking I was the one who killed him and bless Morapio’s daughter for mentioning it over my latest mug. I swiftly corrected her mistake and apologized profusely to all in earshot, but the townsfolk did not seem to care. His second had taken over the shop, a man equally as muscly and bearded, though not as skilled, but for them as long as there were horseshoes and nails for their needs, they were content. Fearing a repeat of The Incident, I hastened to tell the townsfolk that if they had any problems with my Euthonian Crusade, for them to bring them straight to me. I even implemented a Suggestion Box near the bar, before I realized precious few of the peasants knew how to read, let alone write. Well, It’s already nailed up, might as well let it stand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The brothel is available in the Hamlet right out the gate, which always struck me as a grim commentary on how bad things had gotten there. I've also moved around the reconstruction of the different areas of the Hamlet, mostly to make sense that the town is dragging itself back from the brink.
> 
> Tell me what things, relationships, or ideas you'd like to see in your reviews or comments. They're the Hamlet's own Suggestion Box!
> 
> In fact most peasants in the Middle Ages did learn how to read, some anthropologists/archeologists recently discovered some paper from a peasant schoolchild in Russia with accompanying bored class doodles, it's a riot. The Heir is ignorant still in many ways, but they are learning.


	3. A Tall Dark Stranger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A promising man is cut short, Wayne June makes an appearance, and the Heir ponders their relationship with the warriors of the Hamlet.

Week 11 in the Year of our Light 1552.

A strange man came to town today, stranger than the usual ragamuffins the Caretaker brings. He was clad in pants and a measly cloak, dark of hair and eye, and wrapped in chains. At first, I thought the man to be a flagellant of the Abbey or some recent splinter group the Abbott has been inveighing against, but his face showed the truth of it.  
Whatever he is, whatever power lies within him, it was enough for some faction of the Light to label him malleus maleficarum, an Abomination in the eyes of the Light. He kept his eyes downcast, his manner meek, and when I offered for him to join us, nodded with quiet determination. Every turn I make among the tavern or the wagon, I become a faster judge of men than I ever was in my ivory tower at Lyon. This man, whatever had happened to him, has power in him, power that could be turned to our use. Reynauld, who often accompanied me on these examinations as “leader of the Euthonian Crusade” was willing to kill the man on the spot, but I made a pointed reminder of “flaws we can’t help but have” and he backed down, though I caught the flash of fear in his eyes. Yes Reynauld, I know. And so does Dismas. Pray to your Light so you may not stray further from the path you have set yourself upon.  
Regardless, the man, Port, has settled in well. He is of no trouble, though Sam, the occult expert, has suggested I watch for him on nights with a full moon. He suggests the legends of the loup-garou, the flesh-changers, and before I arrived here, I would have laughed him back to Calcutta, but not now. Now, I take his advice and thank this man who has shown up on my doorstep from the far reaches of the world.

By the Light, what am I becoming?

Week 15 in the Year of our Light 1552,

This has been a week, nay a month of successes followed by disasters. Tally-Ho, Fair Aria, Stalwart Sam, (nicknamed again by Dismas for his cool head in combat) and Port the Abominable man fought a beguiling sea-creature and drove her back into the Coves. The creature was clearly, grotesquely female in origin with her ah- mammalian assets on display despite her aquatic manner. Aria fervently hoped the manner of the creature’s creation would never become known to us, and I agreed with the archer. In any case, it used some song to attempt to entice my soldiers into her service and while the song was indeed lovely to hear, I am proud I never fell under its spell, though I had to drag both men and women back to sanity with my hands and voice. As it affected both sexes, I can only conclude the spell went beyond physical attributes, for the afflicted only mentioned a marvelous dream or song, the specifics they were unable to provide. Something to ponder, the nature of magical defenses…

While I was dragging myself through the coves at low tide, Reynauld, Dismas, Carter, and Ballique resanctified the Ruins with holy rituals, hoping that the necromancer was dead for good and if not, the Light-blessed wards would hold it back enough to stem the tide of animated bones from my ancestral crypts. The ensuing silence in the crypts raised their hopes, but Dismas got sick with a cough and has been laid up for the past week.

Now for the wretched news: Somehow a group of the bandits gained ahold of a cannon. A genuine, wall-breaching cannon the size of a man! They so kindly tested it by launching balls into the middle of the hamlet itself, though where they found the ammunition, I’ll never know. Stalwart Sam, in command at Reynauld’s absence, led the drive to take out the brigand’s artillery before it could menace the Hamlet further. Port, the poor creature, lost his life to a cannonball shot while all his companions were set upon and slain by the brigands. The heroes mounted a desperate counterattack and succeeded, only for Bron, a redoubtable mercenary, nymphomaniac, and man-slayer to succumb to a fungus-clad thing when his poorly maintained armor failed him. 

We were unable and unwilling to recover the bodies. Port’s was…well, there wasn’t much left of him in one piece to bury, but the nearby ravine served just as well for a “sky burial” Ballique called it. 

Seeking to compensate for their failures, Stalwart Sam and Fair Aria mounted an escalade into the Darkest Dungeon, whose black, cyclopean doors we pass if we delve deep enough into the Ruins or high enough in the coves. All roads, however twisted and winding, seem to lead there, in the end. 

Malice and a foul sense emanate from those doors and no one, even I have suggested we breach them. If I had my way, we would only open them with the entire armies of France at our side, and even then, it could end ill. In the end, both Sam and Aria were slain by whatever was inside, for Reynauld and I, on guard beyond, saw no one return. We buried their personal effects in the graveyard, alongside the others, but these were the first deaths that truly hurt me as a person and not-

I knew them both, counted them as friends. Aria came seeking reliable mercenary pay and Sam, I know not why, but they helped shore up the Hamlet’s defences and  
I’m not good at this. At death, at meaningful eulogies. Aria had a priest say everything she wanted to, but Sam. I didn’t know Sam’s beliefs, only that they were not of the Light. He politely declined Reynauld’s offer of morning mass, but I wish I’d known him better. What I knew, what he allowed me to know, was enough to feel the loss. 

How do you know if a loss is real?

The stories are filled with sobbing maidens and weeping lords, but so rarely do they tell of true ways of dealing with death. The others who’d died, I hadn’t really thought about them, as people. They were mercenaries or accidents, people whose blame I could put on the shoulders of the safely dead and not my own. I am not filled with grief, I have not collapsed to my knees. I have simply acknowledged their deaths and carried on as before, knowing I will never see them again. Perhaps this is how Father always felt, why he discouraged Grand-the Ancestor’s fraternity with the folk of the Hamlet. Better to be aloof than hurt, amongst them? I must give this some thought, but I intend to finish a pint downstairs first.

Week 16 in the Year of our Light 1552,

I am now hearing voices.

The Ancestor’s voice, specifically. It is in my head, its source sightless, and undetectable by others. It-He does not respond to me or my entreaties, merely comments upon my actions or those of my followers. Late last night, deep into my cups and in a manner entirely unbefitting a Noble, I had slumped next to the well, vomiting all sorts of effluvia and bemoaning the deaths on my hands when he spoke.

“Trouble yourself not with the cost of this crusade. Its noble end entails you broad tolerance in your choice of means.” 

If this was meant to be comfort, it was ice cold and ill-offered. It was fortunate the townsfolk had gone to bed, for I ranted and shrieked at the remnants of the statue, cursing it for a fool, an adulterer, every invection I had heard hurled against him by my Father or the villagers, including several mighty oaths I’d heard slip from Dismas’s tongue when he was kicked out of the gambling hall. He said nothing, all that time, and all that following morning too. Only when I was sucking down water in my study and bundling the collected notes of those soldiers and advernturers who wished for news from afar did I hear him again. He sounded defeated, a man who had the world and let it slip through his fingers.

“In time, you will know the tragic extent of my failings.”

This wasn’t it? That he had led our house and reputation to ruin wasn’t enough? That he’d despoiled the whole countryside in search of some nameless power beneath the manor? I dreaded the prospect of such knowledge even as a part of me relished more opportunities to curse the man. It is as they say, nothing is so bitter, so deeply felt, as love that has curdled into hate. 

Week 17 in the Year of our Light 1552.

In hopes of finding some measure of success, we have been reinforced by the Caretaker’s stagecoach recruits and divided into two main groups. The experienced heroes made the long and perilous trek into the Weald to track down the Shrieker, a crow or raven of Vast size that had stolen many of the hamlet’s valuables and trinkets. Though they drove the bird off, they were unable to kill it, but such was the value of the shining traphedozoids in its nest that some thought they should let it live to allow the beast to find? Or lay? more. I am uncertain how the bird came by such objects, but sent Ballique back to Lyon with a sample, for which the Geology department proved to be worth some 3,000 ducats. I once worried about her reporting to Dean Baquet, now I welcome the possibility. Let her spread our plight to the four corners of the world! Sam came alone from far-off India, who knows how many men with secret knowledge or strong weapons could come to use in halting this darkness? Let her spy on me, tell her tales. I can only hope she is believed, that the warnings I sent to Mother and Brother are heeded. Let them flee from this place, to Quebec with the natives of the continent if need be! Whatever keeps them away from this evil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The game is deliberately anachronistic in its sense of time. Crusaders and Plague Doctors from the Middle Ages, guns and nobles from the 18th and 19th centuries, all sorts of wobbly wobbly timey wimey stuff. I plan to play this up to the hilt, particularly as the Heir is a Historian, and should know these things. I however, am not, so expect broad sweeping strokes.


	4. Schisms and Schemata

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carter builds a hospital, and the Church of Light begins its Reformation period. The Heir takes up a hobby and Dismas starts a side racket.

Week 36 in the Year of our Light 1552, tomorrow 1553.  
Further expeditions into the Weald allowed for the collection of rare herbs for Carter, who now heads my newly constructed Sanitarium. Her (I can now say with confidence) knowledge gives us the ability to treat many of the injured, sickly, or mentally wounded heroes of the hamlet, for which we are all grateful. No longer do soldiers, ex-bandits, and monks have to rub shoulders in the barracks, the injured infecting the healthy and alike. It should’ve been a higher priority, but now things have finally calmed enough I feel the Hamlet can now be counted as a proper outpost of civilization once more. Reynauld and Dismas proposed a guild or training ring of some sort, so those with experience can teach those without. I only wish the damn schism in wider France would stop intruding on our Hamlet.

Apparently, a rather fanatical group of Lighters thought His Shining Holiness in Vatican City wasn’t going far enough with the “Punishment and Abnegation”. They call themselves the Prophets of the Church of Blood and have a great deal to say about vows of poverty and suffering. One showed up at the Abbey in the middle of solstice prayers and made a spectacle of himself, strolling up and down the aisles, whipping himself with a truly dreadful spiked instrument I’ve seen the undead wield below! There was shouting at me, the Abbott, between all three of us, then Reynauld, who was debating the finer points of what he later told me was the Canticles of Saint Sebastian before he gave up and pummeled the man in the nose. We all heard the crunch as it broke and some of the villagers, especially the children, cried out in shock, but the flagellant just stood there and took it. He seemed to relish the pain, even as blood dripped to the flagstones. Some part of me, operating automatically after so many visits to the carriage, whipped out a contract and offered him to join our band, emphasizing the Holy aspect of our Crusade. I could feel Reynauld glowering at me, but the man simply wiped his lip and scrawled an X on the bottom with his own blood. I dragged him away to “tour the town” and Mass was able to carry on without interruption or at least less of one. 

I returned to the Abbey later to find Reynauld and the Abbott ready to carve me apart like the solstice celebratory chickens and the argument I’d been expecting consumed the better part of the evening. I shall avoid them here, for my head still aches with self-righteous abjurations of “Suffer not the Heretic, who has turned from the Light in favor of Darkeness” or “Son of Joshua I have made thee a watchman upon the house of Man”. Yes, Reynauld, I am quite aware we stand in vigil, I am down there in the slime, bone dust, and filth with you.

Apologies, reader. While I am conscious enough to join many of the town for Mass as a bulwark against their fears of “the Ancestor repeated”, I do not care for the supremely religious, which is why I have left Reynauld to deal with the Abbott for now. Ideally, he shall do so until both are dead.  
Scratch that last.  
Invocation is a poor idea, here of all places.

Week 37 in the Year of our Light 1553.

It has been blessedly quiet here, or at least relatively so, after the arrival of the Church of Blood and the new year. They’ve set up…a hovel would be kind to name it, but it is a dwelling-place of sorts for their sort. Carter, bless her inquisitive heart, hurried over as soon as she heard of their peculiar fascination and plied their leader, Grimmaldus, with all sorts of questions, soups and salves. They parted amicably, so it seems religion and science are not as obstinate as I had feared.

There was a minor scuffle in the tavern when Tally-Ho was caught marking cards and was kicked out by the seat of his pants. A wanderer now known as the “Lonely Lep” gained his name from becoming the only survivor of another group to enter the Weald. I used to mention the names of those unfortunates who had fallen in service to our cause, but now, so many have fallen or fled upon seeing the reality of our situation, I no longer care for the fresh meat. Fiona, that wild woman I had spoken of under the delusion of her incompetence, died in her bed, unmarked and unmolested. The townsfolk were greatly feared, but Carter carved her open and said her blood had been poisoned, some delayed effect from a spore beast. There will always be more, more soldiers and outlaws, fools and corpses, endless grist for the mill of the Estate.

The Ancestor’s voice comes to me more frequently now, his comments more sinister. He speaks of the sins he wrought against all manner of man and monster, driving ever onward, heedless of the cause or cost. I dug up Sam’s book- his spellbook and have begun searching it for means to block out the Ancestor forever, though I feel no hope, only a mind-numbing resignation at his presence. The voice is not driving me mad, I think, or It does not elicit any response I cannot control. It never expects answers and never responds. It simply exclaims, urges, cajoles, reproaches at every step. Light a torch? It is there. Step on a bear trap? It is there. Bury my dagger in a bandit six feet tall? Commenting on “inordinate exsanguination”.  
It is a reminder to not fall as far as he did, or at least slow my descent enough Reynauld or Dismas can kill me feasibly. I had not given much thought to my own death beyond a few black weeks after Father’s passing, but now it remains a preferable alternative to a multitude of terrifying questions. The source of the pig-men that grovel in the remains of the kennels and sewers, the corpses with fungi pouring out of every orifice, the gibbering madmen who are all that remains of the Ancestor’s last expedition into the Dungeon, the cultists that stalk the Estate, praying to some God through their language of slaughter and shadow limbs. I have friends to kill me if I fail, others who have aided me in pushing back this darkness. The Ancestor would prefer that I drown in this black despair and at nights it is hard to stay my hand. But the dawn always breaks, even cloudy or ill-colored, that great Celestial Object, from which our own Holy Light emanates, still remains. So too shall I remain until the lot of us are destroyed by the things my grandfather unleashed or we triumph. “The Light of redemption is naught but the process of seeking. Verse 3, Canticle 5”-Reynauld said that to Dismas, long ago, on the third page of this journal. Hard to believe I find refuge in it now, doubtful as I am in the Church. 

Week 38 in the Year of our Light 1553  
That disgusting Siren again, forcing us to establish protective wards in the area to lessen the time necessary to patrol the cave. Sam’s book and the creatures have kept me busy. My Ancestor saw fit to seal several areas of the Estate with powerful wards, bound to his bloodline. As I am the only true-born heir to the Euthonian Estate, the wards have keyed themselves to my blood as they did to His. The two weeks it took for me to arrive at the Estate weakened them greatly and I have spent my time studying them, hoping to replicate the seals around the Hamlet, so these interminable midnight watches shall cease. I’ve spent many an hour in my attic study, looking through the window to see Reynauld, Barristan, Boivin, rounds of the others with torches held high, peering into the dark, keeping the good people of this village safe from harm. It is a comforting sight.

We Stand.

Week 52 in the Year of our Light 1553

It has been a year by my reckoning, since I came to this Estate, dragging a bloody Reynauld alongside a surprisingly trustworthy highwayman. So much has changed, I have changed, as I have frequently remarked in this journal and to others. 

Reynauld’s beard has gone decidedly gray, and he is frequently seen debating the merits of a close shave or a beard with Dismas and Barristan, an even older soldier. Carter thinks it’s sweet, I think they just like to argue.

Since my last writing, I have managed to infuse the current wards with amounts of my own blood and drawn a barrier around the Hamlet through several expeditions ranging across the entire Estate, above and below ground. To say it was difficult is a gross understatement, but the night watch now continues out of habit rather than need. Otherwise, how could so many lovers steal away in the night out of one bed and into another?

From the beginning, at Carter and Junia’s insistence, we’ve kept the men and women apart in the barracks and the men were patient enough dealing with the accusations Junia flung at them regularly, even separated by heavy curtains. Carter is, as ever, a mollifying influence to them all, but then Junia was very young. She is not young now. She remains overly suspicious of men and paranoid of the carnal aspects of nature as ever, but she has seen too much horror and violence to be called a child. She’d been a Vestal, one of the rare Order of Flame's nuns tasked with sanctifying the Flame in Saint-Sulpice, up North. How she contrived to end up in the Caretaker’s wagon, I do not know, though a surprising number of nuns across France have followed her here. From what the Abbess told me when I wrote to her, Junia has become something of a symbol for the women in the Church who feel they could find a better station in life. Of course, as a strict devotee of the Light, the Abbess put it rather primly and with a great deal more disapproval, though now Junia is the nominal head of her own cavalcade of nuns, vestals, and scribes, I don’t think her old Superior carries much weight anymore. 

Our Blacksmith has almost reached the heights his master had attained before Dismas and I accidentally killed him last year, it’s quite remarkable. Functional, with almost no ornament, is what I have ordered, and it was what lies before me now, forged steel and leather handle. 

An Heir more vain or more spendthrift than I would have ordered something encrusted with the gems we now haul out of the ruins of the Estate regularly or find scattered across the countryside, but I am not so foolish. The Ancestor was apparently so mad, he stored gunpowder in the Manor next to his digging supplies, so when the villagers set the home ablaze, the explosion sent fused glass of all shapes and sizes hurtling around like musket blasts. Some of what we find are real jewels, but many have turned out to be simple fused glass of various colors. Worthless on their own, but my cousin Audrey’s family made their fortune on stained glass windows and here I had a ready supply of exactly what they needed. 

After the Schism, the Church of Blood found some wealthy nobles interested in their ideas. Or rather, making sure those ideas of poverty, austerity, and pain turned away from the nobles rather than towards them. I was of a similar mind, but Gasgony or London do not have an endless horde of shambling horrors for the devout to throw themselves against, so funding it was. Now flush with gold, the Church of Blood suddenly saw stained glass windows as a noble means of message rather than a vanity and so my red glass shards are now worth the ducats of a real ruby. The rubies we do find make their way to the markets by many means, most of which Father would think beneath me and all orchestrated by Dismas. One of his “old friends” a man called Vulf has been passing the gems we give him on through to Parisian jewelers and even to Muscovy, if you believe Dismas. Dismas himself seems to think it perfectly possible, though he and I both know Vulf is keeping some of the choicest bits to himself. I at least made it clear that if anything happens to any of my people from his camp, not only will there be no more jewels, but that my now considerable army will root him out and I will execute him before the King myself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a nerd for logistics and always wondered how if the Ancestor spent "the last of the family fortune on swarthy workmen and sturdy shovels" how do the ruins still have gold and jewels of such value? Well I've fudged the answer a bit, but it's likely the cultists are leaving sacks of valuables out to entice the adventurers to come in after them. I'm rather proud of my jewel explanation personally.


	5. Two Kings, One in Yellow.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Heir's powers grow even as they are forced to retreat from the front lines by the increasing demands of an entire Estate. Powers at home and afar take notice.

[The book has been splashed in a large quantity of black ink, several pages are soaked through and others have only scattered sections legible]

Week 54, in the Year of our Light 1554

I have been pressed more and more into a clerical role as our coffers swell and the Estate grows more lively and abundant with every passing day. We now sport a host that could easily match the Armee National, mostly in small quarters and maneuvering, for the warped environs of the Estate have forced everyone to "think on their feet" as it were. I've received some worrying correspondence from the capitol and it is only by leveraging every contact three generations of Euthonians have had in court that the King does not investigate further. I was forced to stoop to asking some of the Ancestor's former compatriots to convince all they could reach of the necessity of hundreds of men and women at arms in the Southeastern corner of France. They asked me for several vile things I dare not impart even here. Oh, how the Ancestor's voice relished my indecision, how low I would indeed stoop to finish this Crusade. I have worked with Old Ben and several others knowledgable in manners eldritch to create convincing forgeries of several artifacts they requested. I will not be responsible for the spread of more madness and if they think me above my station, they can get in line to kill me alongside every other monstrosity in this blasted Estate!

Week 60, in the Year of our Light 1554

My efforts were successful, but not in the way I had hoped. The King himself wishes to speak to me, and has threatened the rest of the Euthonians with destitution if I do not comply. Cousin Hendry's husband, the glass merchant who has done so well with our supplies, was made an example of. His trade networks have vanished, his warehouses mysteriously set aflame, and his supplies sold to the lowest bidder. Dear Hendry is not doing well at all, and has sent a letter begging me as Heir, to do right by her. That she has abandoned familiarity is astonishing, for I remember her to have been a clumsy, sickly, but relentlessly cheerful little girl. Her pecuniary losses must have been fierce indeed for her to openly plead for my aid. Once again it is my responsibility to save this family, though I can feel my shoulders bow under the weight. I shall see if my allies here can lend their own support, whatever form it may take. Abbott Gregory, Reynauld, and Chaplain Grimmaldus can cover the religious ground. Junia's Guardians of the Flame perhaps, but she is still an outcast, so that may not play to my advantage, especially when the Church of Blood is an ally. I already skirt too close to heresy for the wider Church of Light to openly support me, but backchannels are another matter. I will have the Caretaker accompany me to Paris at first light, and do my best to sort this out.

In my absence, Reynauld shall take command, which he already has in all but name. He doesn't speak of it a great deal but he did lead a sizable force during his time in the Middle East, and it shows. He and Barristan bicker still about unit sizes and beard length but it's campfire banter at this point, of no consequence. I thought of asking Dismas to accompany me as a bodyguard, but upon further reflection, that would be impolitic among the court. I've spent so long rubbing shoulders with the outcast and the infected, a mere highwayman now seems paltry in comparison, especially when he has proven himself one of the best men I've ever met. He too, while deep in his cups alongside me, has spoken of family, a wife and son, newly highborn, but always in the past tense. The look on his face...

Week 61 in the Year of our Light 1554  
Travel, not much to report. Beds were comfortable, not even any lice. Wore out the horses, had to change them at an inn. Forgot how much cheaper things are in the rest of France, still overpaid for lodging by a factor of three. Even then, I can afford to spend the ducats and if I'm tossing and turning, it should at least be on good sheets.

Week 62 in the Year of our Light 1554  
Arrived in Paris on Sunday, and it was only my Father's ingrained sense of decorum that prevented me from walking straight to the Palace immediately. Instead of the poor Caretaker, who has done wonders getting me here in such a short time, I sent a messenger to the Palace Gate instead, whereupon I was informed I would have to wait for my petition to be taken up. As if it was not the King Himself who summoned me, and for such weighty matters! The front is enough to make my blood boil, and the part of me more like my Ancestor than not is urging me to use what I know to sweep aside the guards, make a Violent Statement of my annoyance. I know I could call forth arms of shadow to wrend the gates asunder, forces to block the bullets and Swiss halberdiers who would seek my head, even beasts from Beyond bound within pigs to emphasize the nature of unreality I now command. But I learned those powers to undo what my Ancestor had sought to do, not to perpetuate them on and on down the years. I am Mighty now, like the heroes of the Iliad, but a great many concerns still stay my hand.

Such feeble attempts to prompt public displays show the Ancestor's voice is perhaps unsettled at my presence here in the capital. It has not truly spoken since I passed the boundaries of the Estate, yet it incites all the same. Curious.

Tomorrow I shall split my time between the banking houses whose credit has now been repaid in full, and the Holy Sepulchre, abode of the Bishop. Now, I need to sleep and rid myself of these dark thoughts.

Week 63, in the Year of our Light 1554

The money-lenders have been repaid in full and were quite happy to see me in person. Though not Greek, I came bearing gifts nonetheless and they fell over themselves at the masterworks I offered. Winding music boxes, golden cups, all to ostensibly thank them for their generosity and it was all well-meant. However, the true purpose of my visit was to visit our notary, whose files contained all the deeds to the land in and around the Euthonian Estate. With all the contracts I've been offering, those deeds needed to be significantly revised to reflect the reality of the situation. For one, I plan to build a banking outpost of my own quite soon, to eliminate this need for further credit and as a secondary protection for our funds, now that the King has taken an interest. Other plots of land are allotted to those who value such things, those of my mercenaries who can see a life beyond the blood-soaked battlefield. 

The deeds have been altered, though the notaries beg I do not alter them further. According to them the number of claims stretch credulity, but they have not seen the Hamlet as I have, bustling once more, children free to play in the streets, armed men and women who hail one another in grim cheer and satisfaction. As frustrated as I am with the capital, this work is worth it. Surprisingly, it was the Bishop of all people who reaffirmed my once vestigial faith in the Light. He'd apparently known Reynauld from youth and expressed pleasure when I spoke of the man's skill at command. He even promised to send what men at arms he could our way, to return with me to the Estate if I had enough time. Alas, I may not, for time waits for no man, least of all one who will now meet with the King next week. I wait with equal parts anticipation and dread. There was a reason I immersed myself in History and antiquities rather than brave the Parisian Palace courts, but the people of the Hamlet, of my army, owe it to me to do my best. I must not let them down.

Reynauld has sent word. Fair Aria, of all people, rode in on a horse, covered in mud and the dirt of travel. She looked sickly and exhausted, but relaid her information from her sickbed. A foul wind has swept into the town, sending all manner of people to bed with high fevers. The Sanitarium is overflowing, and the Sodden Wyrm has shut down, out of fear of sickness. Reynauld could have responded easily to a military incursion, but he too has fallen ill. Barristan and Carter are in command now and the people say my departure triggered the event. Folly? Perhaps, but the Ancestor's voice has been quiet, the wards may have weakened away from my physical presence. Damn the wards! Am I to spend the rest of my years in that ancient manor? Never to leave? 

Regardless, the wind emanated from the Weald and Fair Aria reported Barristan himself intended to lead an expedition to find the source of the contagion. I can only pace up and down my room, powerless due to the vast distance between us. She brought something else, something she said to show the King, but begged me to leave it in its burlap sack. She pled so desperately, even in her weakened condition, that I had not the heart to disobey her. Still, that does not mean I am blind. Whatever it is, it is doubtlessly some foul remnant of the terrors haunting the Estate, some proof so incontrovertible that the King will be forced to believe me. The sack is not dripping blood, so it must be cauterized or dried. It is not writhing, so what is inside does not live on in undeath, and it is heavy, so whatever it is must be sizable. From the feel of the sack, it contains something small, the size of a melon. I have a guess what it is, a product of that creature we have seen prowling the grounds, ablaze with blue fire that never burns out. One of its many heads.

We have fought it before, but the creature does not truly die, only abandons its current cloak and skull, to show up once again with more harvested heads, seeking to add our own to his collection. I have tried to bind it many times, but it slips through the chains as easily as I might breathe. It is not like the Pigs, from the Outer Spheres, or the necromancy of Undeath, or the mutation of the Fishmen. It is something else, perhaps far older. 

Dare I show this to the King? Tell him tales of what we have seen?  
A risky move. But the possibilities a favorable Crown could give us...

Week 64, in the Year of our Light 1554

It all started so well.

I accompanied the liveried servants to the Palace, submitted to the numerous inspections before I was allowed to enter the grounds. They took everything I had that could conceivably harm the King, from my brooch to the dagger I had tucked into my boot and I felt naked without even something as modest as a dagger on my person. It was a calculated indignity, that I could not be trusted in the presence of the King, but an indignity from whom, I know not. It could have been some advisor with a grudge against my house, a bored bureaucrat going through the motions of security, or even the King himself, having no doubt heard wild tales of the Euthonian Estate.

The Bag proved those notions true. The moment the Palace guards opened it, blue fire began to pour out, immolating the soldiers in instants, charring the skulls down to the bare essentials and pulling them together under the yellow cloak which emerged. However Reynauld had trapped the Collector, it no longer mattered, only the consequences.

I threw caution to the winds and grabbed my dagger back from one of the panicking halberdiers, who the Collector was calmly immolating, one blue-tinged gaze at a time. I slashed my palm and began to throw lines of blood around it, slow it, distract it, anything. The halberdiers were gone by the time I finished the first spell, but a second phalanx burst in from the double doors that led deeper into the Palace itself. The Collector turned to look at them, excited at the prospect of fresh additions to its ghastly menagerie, when I tightened the spell. Lines of blood magic snapped taught and I launched myself at the Collector's back. 

It was lighter than I'd expected, but still carried substance, and together we careened through the guards, setting some alight in unaimed bursts of blue fire or gaping wounds from my own wild bloodblade. There was no conscious thought anymore, it was all too unexpected, too horrific, too THERE for anything beyond action and reaction. 

It possessed three of the soldiers and set them upon me while I flung the yellow cloak over my shoulder and up into a chandelier, which detonated in spectacular fashion. Two missed their thrusts, but one sank his blade deep in my thigh. I stamped down with my other foot, shattering the wooden haft, but causing more blood to pour from the wound. 

I lost precious seconds as I forced the blood to bound up from the ground and return to the veins it sprang from, clotting the wound even as I pulled the steel from it. I laid into the possessed, gripping the axehead and dagger alike, ending their lives a quickly and painlessly as possible. I'd forgotten how ineffective weapons not forged in blessed metal could be, it took two swipes of the halberd head for every one of my dagger, but it was too late.

By the time I had dispatched the last, a leaping drive into both eyes that I'd borrowed from Dismas's own bladework, the Collector had drifted down from the ceiling and was headed toward the main hall, ignoring me completely. I'll admit that made me angry. I'd had enough of outsiders underestimating Euthonians, everyone who'd fought and struggled and died to keep people safe from the things my Ancestor had wrought upon the world. I uttered some inarticulate curse and charged forward. The next few minutes were a bit of a blur, even looking back with the clarity of hindsight. 

I remember it tried to get up, to fly away, to lose me in the endless streets of Paris. I bound it once more in shadow and blood, creating binding sigils on the fly across my own arm, in my own blood, trusting to desperation and instinct when careful binding spells had failed before. It dragged me along the rooftops, through windows and crossbeams, but I refused to let go. I had impressions of scattering crowds, finely dressed, knights in plate looking up in astonishment, and the clamor of alarm bells. 

A window.  
SMASH

A grotesque outcropping.  
CRUNCH

I let out an involuntary "oof" as the impact drove the breath from my lungs and the stone gave way under the unexpected stress. We plowed on as the rubble fell, I caught a glimpse of crowds below scattering from the debris, but then-

Another window.  
I twisted wildly in the wind, feet pumping madly for any traction as I sought to protect my face from yet more shards of glass. This time I was lucky, for my back bore the brunt of the impact but bit back a hiss as two shards lodged somewhere in my boot, thankful I had worn what practice attire I could underneath the finery. Enough passivity.

I rolled my wrists, pulling the chains of sorcery tighter around my body as well as my mind and threw out a lash of my own. The Collector was driven away from the open air and back among the spires of the palace, hissing in frustration as it sensed I was beginning to corral it, like the hound masters once did. 

But it had a malign intelligence of its own and soon glowing heads were raining from the infinite blackness inside the cloak, bodies of light and shadow scrabbling at my arms or drawing blades to cut me as they went past. As their master outpaced them, the heads began to drop, lifeless and inert without the Power that gave them form. I struck back with my legs as best I could, but each attempted counterstrike would send me careening wildly along the ends of my chains and soon I was reduced to little more than a foetal position, elbows locked to shield my face and neck from the onslaught.

When it saw despite its efforts I was still alive, the Collector shrieked at me and I responded, a snarl of defiance somewhat undercut by a scream as the yellow cloak dove toward the ground at high speed.

It was going to drive me into the ground, then take my head from my battered corpse, then move on to the thousands in Paris outside. Perhaps it would even take the King. And why not? If it could take me, it could take anyone.

I let go of the Collector with my right hand and began lashing out, lines of shadow stretching and curling around every edifice I could see, desperate to slow my fall. Half a dozen and more every second, each pull slightly tighter than the last until our perilous dive leveled out just below the rooftops. 

I finally got my feet under me in the inner courtyard, latched around a particularly stubborn topiary, and heaved with muscles that felt the size of Barristan's own barrel chest in that moment. 

The yellow-clad corpse landed with a clatter of bones and a soundless scream at the feet of His Majesty Henry II, Dauphin of France, Knight of the Garter, and his personal Swiss Guard. 

To his credit, the captain made to crush the skull underneath his boot, only to suffer a burn he shall carry the rest of his days. My own dagger did the job, for I buried it up to the hilt in the crown of the skull and repeated the motion until the blue light faded. I ignored the brazier-crown around it, as well as the flame though it cut and scorched my hand to near unrecognizability. A powerful hand closed over my arm and I looked up to realize it was the King. He drove his own blade, a cavalry saber more ornamental than not, into the thing and pulled me up. I looked over, panting, covered in soot, rags, and blood, most of it my own, and made to bow, only for my much-abused legs to collapse under me.

Immobile on the ground and surrounded by Swiss Guards was not how I had wanted this conversation to happen. I'd hoped against the possibility, but never imagined something like this.

"Your Grace." I managed, nodding my head.

King Henry was as white as a sheet and looked several times from me to the now empty yellow cloak, from which the roasted skulls of his guard began to pour out of. I absently counted some twenty-five. More must be out on the streets below. They were going to be a pain to round up.

"You are the Euthonian Heir, I presume?

"Yes, Your Grace."

The one raising havoc past Lyon?" 

"More preventing havoc, Your Grace. My apologies for the disturbance, but I'd hoped to offer you proof-"

"The Euthonian raising armies to ensure your own succession against a number of illegitimate rivals, while your King, your nation, fights in Italy?"

His voice had started low, but swiftly rose in volume and anger as he recalled why he had summoned me. I was in no state to argue.

"I've been raising armies to fight that, Your Grace. I'd intended to present its remains to you as proof, but..."

I trailed off. There was no excuse, nothing I could say to excuse the havoc I'd caused in his house.

Henry the Second gave orders and the guards hauled their captain and I over onto one of the nearby stone benches, while others began stabbing the remains of the Collector. Mercifully, it remained dead this time. 

"You've caused me a great deal of trouble, Euthonian." he began. "Interfering in the Church of Light's business, drawing preposterous sums of money from thin air when by all accounts your Grandfather had near wiped your house's fortune from the banks."

"I made lucrative deals-"

"Consorting with criminals, running brothels, and failing to pay The Crown's taxes for a year entire, not to mention smashing my palace and endangering my Royal Self, these and more are now the crimes to which you stand accused. By all rights I should simply have your head and be done with it."

The King sighed and rubbed his beard. "It would make things much easier."

"I'm sorry Your Grace" was all I could manage, but rallied at once.  
"My Ancestor, Grandfather, whatever you wish to call him, found something beneath our manor, something which drove him to madness and has made the Church's descriptions of Hell seem quaint and dull in comparison."

The King pointed at the yellow cloak. "Things like that?"  
"Things worse than that, Your Grace. That one can be killed, temporarily. Other things I've never even seen because to sight it is to already be dead."  
I thought of Sam and his premature charge beyond the obsidian doors and my throat closed up.  
"I've lost friends, keeping them back, keeping them contained to our Manor. I'm trying my best, we all are."

"You and your army of mercenaries?"

"Yes. Mercenaries, Crusaders, Occultists, old professors, and more. Everyone who arrives is needed. It's all I can do to keep my people alive, fed, and sheltered, My King."  
I felt my hands reflexively closing, blood loss and long habit curling them into knotted fists.  
"I've had to narrow my focus, so much, for so long. I don't know what I should ask of you, if I even ought to ask anything at all. I'll pay your taxes, crush the entire Italian Peninsula, remove my own head, everything you desire and more if you let me do this, let me finish what my Grandfather started."

"Your designs on the Church of Light?"

"Only as far as they can aid me and mine. We've found blessed metal to be a powerful asset against the necromancers, as well as the Siren's thralls."  
"Necromancers plural? How many?"

I held up three fingers then shrugged.  
"Hard to locate in the catacombs and harder still to kill. I've sent teams to search, gone in myself, nothing. My Liege please-"

"Are you aware the newly established Church of Blood extolls your praises to the pews every Sunday across France?" asked the King, his manner so casual I almost missed the implications.  
"They what? By the Light-"  
"Exactly my reaction." said the King. "So I hastened to learn who this dangerous fool was, who took sides in a euminical split the Light itself has not seen in over a century, and has courted Bishops, Jews, and the daughters of traitors all within the week they arrived in this city, in my city ."

He glared at me, the mask now gone, only naked fury and fear remained.  
"You sit there, with your glass window schemes, your brothels, your convicted traitors, murderers, your mountains of ducats and you plead, poorly, to let me ignore it all?!"  
He jabbed a finger into my chest.  
"Let me ignore an army on my southern borders while the Blood-men and the Hugenots spread sedition in the face of the One True Light? Do you not see how untenable this position is? For you? For me?"

He let the finger drop.  
"I would be a fool to let you go anywhere other than a dungeon cell or the headsman's axe, Euthonian."  
"I understand, Your Grace. My Apologies, Your Grace."

"The groveling is beneath you, Euthonian. Present your case or expire on this bench." 

The King's personal surgeon arrived and began bustling about the Captain of the Guard immediately. I absently noted the speed he'd salved and bandaged the wound, a field dressing of remarkable skill. Five seconds to diagnose, seven to salve and wrap. Carter could scarcely have done better. I wrenched my gaze back to the King, who'd been watching me as I was watching the medic. I wiped at my arms, sending flakes of dried blood and soot off into the grass as the medic pointedly ignored me and left.

"In all honesty, Your Grace, it seems like you've already made up your mind, and this meeting was just a formality, or a bit of theatre for the Court. I wager my man's accident with the-"  
I waved at the yellow cloak and caged skull, with my dagger still firmly embedded in it.  
"Collector was merely the last in a long line of incidents your spies have obviously informed you of. But rest assured, the moment my Estate has been properly sealed, the people safe and happy once more, I will lay my head down upon the block myself. All that I ask is that you give me time. Time to make this right. It's been a year already and we've made great progress. There are-"

"You ask for more time?"  
I swallowed the word "children" and decided the naked appeal to emotion wasn't going to cut it. "Yes, Your Grace."  
"You swear to follow all my commands, no matter how outlandish, so that you may restore your House to its rightful state?"  
"No, Your Grace."

The King looked ready to detonate, but I plowed on.

"There are others, Your Grace, fellows of my Grandfather who exist in your own Court, just as they have weaseled their way into my own correspondence. They too sought an advantage, from the powers my Grandfather courted and which I fight against now. They asked things of me, in return for favors, to keep your Eminence placated."

A little flattery didn't hurt, in the midst of brutal honesty.

"I do not know their designs, if they were loyal to you or sought such power for their own advantage, but I could not give them what they asked, just as I could not give it if you asked, Your Grace."

I looked him in the eye, ordinarily an unforgivable breach of decorum.  
"I intend to pull that Manor apart around me, stone by stone, book by book, until that knowledge is purged from the world. If I had my way, the Euthonian line would die with me."

Henry the Second sat in silence for a long time, and I was inclined to let him. One of the guards offered me a wineskin, which I drank greedily, not caring if it was water or wine, though it turned out to be the former.  
"An end to the Euthonian House you say?"

I felt a chill down my spine. "My younger brother and Mother remain innocent. They are uninvolved."

"That you know of. From what I've seen today, it is clear you are not infallible."

"I never pretended otherwise, Your Grace."

"And you are sure this Manor of yours is the only such source of this evil?"

"No, Your Grace. But you nor I can save the world entire. I leave that to the Church of Light, for my Hamlet gives me enough trouble. Perhaps after, if you reconsider your sentence."

The King gave me an appraising look, but gave no sign. For my part, I suddenly realized exactly how much blood I'd spent on those bindings and fought the drowsiness stealing over me. The fight felt like it had lasted hours, the conversation, days. Silence resumed until several of the guards began to bundle up the Collector's remains. I made to get up, but a gloved hand forced me back down.

"Those guards, stop them, Your Grace."  
Some urgency in my voice stayed his hand for at a nod from the King, the yellow roll of cloth and skulls were deposited at my feet.

"What do you intend to do with them?"

"Burn them, personally, to ensure their taint does not spread any wider, Your Grace. We've found the Abbey of Flame's guidance to be more practical than many suspect, and easier on our minds as well."

The King nodded, something in his mind made up.  
"And where will you go from here?"  
" To the infirmary, Your Grace. I can attest that your palace was built quite soundly indeed."

I made a show of rubbing my shoulders, which in truth did ache from being swung around like a flail.  
The King gave a reluctant chuckle, but rose. When I did so, he clasped my head and stared back into my eyes.  
"I give you three years, Euthonian. Three years to fix this mess, to stop any more things like that," he shook the cloth in my hands, "from touching even a millimeter of French soil."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this one ran away from me. The religion of the Light is loosely based on the Catholic Church, so I had it undergoing the opening stages of the Reformation in full swing at that time in Europe. Henry the 2nd is period-accurate, he spent most of his reign fighting the Italians and the Huguenots, burning some at the stake. He deployed the horrid stereotype of "all Jews have money" which I've been seeing depressingly frequently in political circles these days, but is the result of Catholic beliefs that money-lending was a sin, and accordingly funneled Jewish business owners to lending and rent-collecting occupations by forbidding any others at that time. Not that the Heir cares, they already associate with the Flagellants, who've popped up in the 15th Century here instead of the 14th in our universe.
> 
> I originally had in mind a whole section where the Heir navigates the political circles of 15th Century France while trying to contact their various semi-legal enterprises, but I couldn't make it pop like I wanted to and so dropped it. Might write it as a short story later, but I feel I don't have enough knowledge to do the story justice.


	6. Enemies and Friends, Within and Without

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Heir wraps things up in the Capital and learns a bit more about one of their best shots.

Week 64, Continued in the Year of Our Light 1554

After that, the rest of the day was something of a blur. Two of the King's Guards accompanied me to the infirmary, where the same medic I had seen and many more were in a whirl of activity. A great many guardsmen had been killed, but some had survived or were wounded. I flashed my signet ring, the dark crown and raven on a quartered shield, and had a chair brought to me, which I collapsed into. 

I noticed that despite the wrappings, the moans of pain hadn't decreased. I gestured feebly with the one hand that remained to me and the Guardsman stepped forward.

"Those bandages," I murmered, "get the Priests of the Light to bless them or, failing that, as much laudanum as you can find."

"And you know these things how?" said the Guard, his French clipped and precise.

"The Collector's been around before. Wants new and interesting heads. For his collection." I lamely added. "We've fought him off before, but never this many casualties."

I gazed around in a daze, but the horror was beginning to creep back into my veins. Light, there were so many. Isolated in the Estate as we were, I hadn't realized how unprepared the wider world was, how weathered each of my veterans now was, the disparity between them was too vast. I shook my head to clear it, then regretted it as the room swam and I tipped sideways out of the chair.

A nurse caught me, tipped me back into the seat and went on her way without so much as a backward glance. The Swiss Guardsman considered a moment, then sent his fellow to find the priests. He then removed his helm to reveal a much younger man than I had thought. His eyes were still clear, free of frown lines or the tan of campaigning, while a short scar on the chin spoke to a near miss long ago. His voice was pitched low, conversational enough, but difficult for any to listen, even if the men in the beds were not insensate from the pain.

"You have caused My King a great deal of trouble these many months, Heir to House Euthonian. You unleash a beast from the very Darkness itself upon my men, then contrive to bring it down in front of the Dauphin himself? I am a soldier, not a jester, but I recognize a show when I see one. And now you offer us advice we dare not ignore, to heal the wounds caused by this thing? The rumors of your line's madness were indeed true."

I opened my mouth to object and thought better of it. Instead, I raised my right hand, burnt, carved, and curled into an iron grip on empty air. Light, the smell was even worse up close. I began to wish that man in the courtyard had offered me wine instead. The fact I couldn't even feel the pain meant it would have to be amputated. I waved it in the Guard's face.

"If I had done that, I would've spared my hand."

He scowled and then I saw the eternal vigilance that saw him posted to the King's own side. "Plans can go awry. And you have already made many mistakes today, Euthonian. Now, my men." he pointed to one wailing as the doctors stripped away his striped shirt to get at the red line across his torso. I winced, that had been one of mine.

"Will they live?"

"You mean, will they fight? Perhaps. Each will react in their own way. Have strong drink, pleasure houses, and a chapel ready for them when they need each."

Still, the scowl. "The Swiss Guard do not need-"

"They will."  
I allowed my eyes to show some of the sympathy I held, knowing only one in five would truly recover.  
"My own losses are much higher, to the point my Caretaker may need a new graveyard."  
I paused, running down the list in my head. I did not remember all their names, that was what the list was for, but the faces...I remembered each one, some curiously similar, but all dedicated and hopeful, until the end came.

"Some two hundred and sixty-five at last count, likely more before my return."  
To his credit the halberdier looked shocked. "You lie."

"Why would I? Many more survive, but are broken beyond the needs of any to repair. Some stay in the village to try their hand at farming, others become the cultists, gibbering and flailing at us when we sally. Some, return to banditry, or go where the wind takes them. There is only so much I can do."

I let my claw-hand fall into my lap and clasped it with my other. "An ill wind has spread from the surrounding forest, just as I am not there to turn it back? It's a message. Something at the Estate wants to keep me there, or draw me back as soon as possible."

"We could simply keep you here. You have done more than enough for a cell."  
"You could." I conceded, lying through my teeth. "And Light alone knows what will happen in the next two weeks I am gone. No, I need to get back and soon."  
"Then tell me what you can." retorted the guard, not giving an inch. "If such things approach His Majesty, I must be ready, my duty cannot allow such ignorance when knowledge along could protect him."

I smiled. "Then it seems we finally have something in common, Officer?"  
"Hugo."  
The man shook my hand and stood back against the wall, our conversation done for now. I took the opportunity to go to sleep, but my nightmares were no kinder to me than the reality I had left behind.

Week 65, in the Year of Our Light 1554

I have spent most of the week in this infirmary, paying the price for my spendthrift use of my own blood the week before. Sam and Old Ben would have screamed my head off, as did the King's medic, who finally came 'round to treat my injuries. If I'd been more clear-headed and of stronger will, I simply could have used the Wyrd Reconstruction so beloved by my fellows even now suffering in the Hamlet, but such magic carried its risks. In my state, I could just as easily carve deeper into my own flesh as heal it, so I left them to heal at the usual rate. The usual rate still meaning very slowly, but it was progress.

The glass shards in my boot weren't as bad as I'd feared, but the thigh wound from the possessed Guard barely missed the the artery, and I'd cracked three ribs and broken two. The self-inflicted wounds on my own forearms joined the dozens of other scars there in a distracting patchwork. I'd often run my fingers over them, avoiding the stump that rested there now instead of my right hand.

I'd been right, they'd had to amputate it, but at least were civilized enough to provide anesthetic. I'd seen field amputations that had to make do without, the fungus or blight pouring into the open wound with a greedy speed while Carter or Tally Ho readied a cleaver and a red-hot bar to cauterize. I'd sent for Aria, and the King must've allowed her to be berthed with me, for I woke from the surgery to find her lying on her own cot next to me, reading a small book of poems. 

"So, you've finally come 'round." she grinned, showing crooked teeth.  
"I'd wondered where you'd gotten off to."

I hefted myself into a vaguely upright position by my elbows, hissing as the bandages pressed into the bedspread.  
"You really oughtn't move that at all milord," she reproached. "Docs said it still might go septic."

Aria'd been a contact of Barristan's, served likewise in the Mercenari Wars, and had been as faithful as any Abbess could ask for, let alone a dingy Lord like myself, so I allowed certain familiarities. But there was something...

"daughters of traitors?"

The smile twisted on her face and did strange things to her cheeks.  
"Milord?"

I tried to focus through the now very present pain, and the remnants of the drugs, but complex sentences were hard. My lips were dry, too.  
"King said something about daughter of traitors, when we spoke. Ring any bells?"

The grin was back, but it was as false as Reynauld's vow of poverty. "Lots of traitors these days, Milord, includin' yourself, if I hear right. Can't say for certain."

"Last chance, Aria. If you come clean now, there'll be no trouble from me and mine, Light knows we've got enough to deal with. But if you endanger us in the eyes of the Crown by your silence, I'll ask the Caretaker to find a bag of your own, that I swear."

She swallowed hard and closed the book deliberately, not looking at me. When she spoke, it was clear she was seeing something very different from the stonework of the room and the injured soldiers across from us.

"Can't say much, was only a little girl when it happened. We always lived alone, Father an' me. He'd hunt, sometimes pheasant, sometimes men, for whoever paid well enough, and the pay was good. Got me Millicent, for my Light Day, ages and ages ago."

"Your crossbow?"  
"My bunny"

I didn't know what to say to that.

"Something must've went wrong, somewhere. Maybe he got hired by the wrong noble, killed the right one, doesn't matter. Crowd came looking for us, an' I didn't have to be Jack sharp to know it wasn't for a big shiny medal. We'd always gotten the wrong sort of attention, on account of our being a couple of Moors with no business bein' in France."

"Nobody's given Morapio and his daughter any trouble." I protested, perhaps naively. She snorted at that in derision.

"Morapio's six foot eight, and is the only one slingin' drinks down there. You think even a bunch of bandits want to try their luck with him? Or Oola? We've seen her at the Guild, could launch a spear through a dummy at any distance you care to name."

We were silent for a time until Aria spoke up again.

"It's 'cause of folks like that, banging' on our door that Father gave me the other Millicent. I left out the back door, ran away down the hill."

She wiped her eyes and glared at me. "Any more personal stories you'd like me to spill? My first love? First kill? Last time I went to Church instead of the training field?"

I had never felt so helpless, even when the King had been yelling at me. Something about the quiet misery in her voice unmade me.  
"That's enough for today. Let's just focus on getting out of bed."

She snorted again.  
"How long you think Milord? Two weeks, three?"

Her defenses had come back up, so I I rolled my eyes, playing my part as the ever-eager, magnanimous Noble.

"Ordinarily I'd be racing back to the Hamlet at first light tomorrow, but you've ridden so hard, and while sick too, I suppose we can wait a week. Two if His Majesty is kind enough to allow us to lounge here taking up his Guard's bed space."

Week 66, in the Year of Our Light 1554

As it turned out, the King did allow us to occupy his hospital, but only so he and Hugo, who'd turned out to be the Captain of the Guard as I'd suspected, could pump both of us for information. Mostly me. 

They'd tried talking to Fair Aria, a nickname I now looked upon with a twinge of regret, but she was a soldier. All her knowledge was practical. Bolt this, bandage that, pour holy water or antivenom on this or that. That was what Hugo was interested in anyway. The King, oh, he had much weightier matters to discuss, usually in the dead of night. Whom among his Court I suspected, what they wanted, how far the influence from my Estate had spread.

I gave him what I could, but my Grandfather's acquaintances had been very careful, hiding behind their own sobriquets, some of them designed to cast suspicion onto others.  
The Black Swan, the Bluejay, the Boar, all three suggestive of other Noble Houses, the last of which took King Henry by suprise. The Guard raided Lord Malquist Bevron's city apartments early that morning and found a vast number of the Collector's discarded heads, all placed in a familiar crown shape. That had shaken the King and though his guards hushed things up, I think the unexpected and sudden degeneracy of one of his right-hand associates convinced him I and the Estate were being honest with him. 

And honest I was, laying bare what the King's spies had not already told him, which seemed to be very little. He knew of Vulf, but the man had gone underground, along with my jewels and had apparently fled to his friends abroad. Good riddance, as far as I was concerned. Part of me had hoped to ask the King to return my profitable glass businesses, the trade routes, and such, but it was clear he had other things on his mind and I dared not press him. I was already too close to the Headsman's axe as it was, and my death would undo the Wards I'd placed around the Hamlet. It was stupid of me to do that, stupid and arrogant. I should have bound them to stones, like we did in the Cove and damn the repeated repair trips. Or petitioned the Church of Light to send someone, surely there was someone for the Church who'd done what I now did for the King?

In my ignorance and paltry attempts at placation, I'd dragged our little corner of madness into the wider religious strife now consuming all of Europe. Constantinople's High Light had rejected the new Pope of Rome, while the Church of Blood had made inroads among the common folk, and the Abbey of Light flickered and died as its adherents rushed to Junia's comparatively simple abbey. I was agog at the news and I daresay the King was angry at me again when he realized the depths of my ignorance on such matters of state. France had backed the Valois and His Majesty had only just been beaten back from a campaign in Tuscany last year. When confronted with the realities of such vast command, my army of 350 began to seem quite small indeed. Enough men and women to hold our positions, but if France were overrun from the East, if the Ottomans were to betray us, we would fall in an afternoon. If I'd damned the consequences and flung the Dungeon Doors wide, only then might we have won, but that was a path I swore to His Majesty I would not, could not ever consider. For what it was worth, he was the one who brought up the idea, not me. 

As to the secrecy of my particular matter, it was mostly shattered. It turns out flying through one of the most populated cities in Europe in broad daylight, trailing blue flame and smoke tended to make one noticeable. The remaining heads were scattered. Some where they had fallen in numerous alleyways or cisterns, others secreted away by more mortal collectors, who plied the same trade as my Yellow adversary. The King said he'd put his men on it, but I doubted anything would come of it. Despite or perhaps because of my best efforts, the poison was loose in the bloodstream of the city. Only time would tell if the great body of Man could purge itself of such evil without my help, but I held no hope. 

Neither did the Caretaker, who they'd tried questioning only once. By now I'd grown used to the eternal grin, the frequent giggling, and learned to look solely at his eyes. The Guard were not so stoic and more than one stormed off in a rage or out of naked fear. But bless the poor man, he gave them what he could. Details I knew, but still, hearing others react to the tale of my Ancestor's fall brought it all home. I'd been right in the garden, that the House of the Raven would die out with me. The King intimated as much and though I protested, he'd brought my Mother and younger brother to court, not even bothering with the pretense of protection. They were hostages, plain and simple, but at least the boy could continue his schooling. Cousin Hendry had vanished entirely, her husband the glass merchant dead of what the examiner said was gout, but I had my suspicions anyway.

I waited anxiously for another rider or even a raven from the Hamlet, but no one came. The worry took a worse toll on Aria, who had seen the sickness take hold and was merely grateful the fresh air of Paris that she held to have cured her. I refrained from cursing the vile cisterns and chamber-pots of Paris through a miracle of Light and the promise from the Caretaker that, royal dispensation or no, we would ride with the sun tomorrow. I head now to sleep, but hopefully not to dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've kept the racism and sexism as mentions so far, because I know I can't write well about either. Those are not experiences I've had to endure, are not a part of who I am, but they are very much real and omnipresent, even in the Hamlet. The Heir is still having to overcome their own preconceptions about women and I've got a great ruckus planned for a future chapter which is going to blow the Hamlet sky-high without any help from Vulf, who is indeed off to Russia to cool off. Also, the Heir now needs a new way to make money.
> 
> I intend to do some reading and research, I know I have master posts buried somewhere in my Drafts... that's for tomorrow for it is indeed very late. Wish I could get this spacebar to quit sticking, and adding in more spaces than necessary.


	7. Close Encounters of the Musical Kind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Heir returns to the Hamlet with a death sentence on their head and a time limit. Traveling home comes with its own set of difficulties.

As I'd hoped, we awoke to the silent touch of the Caretaker's arm and his familiar leer, hidden once more behind an upturned collar. What had once been an off-putting, morbid aspect to his demeanor now seemed a grim blessing, for it forced those of us who worked with him to look beyond it to see his true feelings. I was of a similar mind about Aria. Though her story had thrown me off balance, it was not nearly as bad as I'd feared and hopefully once we were out of sight of the Capital the King would lose interest in one Arbalest. For my part, I was simply glad to lean upon her shoulder as we made our way down the halls, surprising servants bustling about in the predawn light, but encountering no opposition until we reached the guardhouse.

Captain Hugo was there, once again dressed in all his functional finery, and surrounded by halberdiers, while we looked shabby in comparison in riding leathers and Aria's dull armor. My mercenaries had grown accustomed to wearing armor as their day wear, knowing they could be summoned for an urgent mission at any moment and I was never more grateful to have her on my side, outnumbered though we were. I limped forward, offering a greeting, only to stumble as my leg could not bear the weight. Hugo and the Caretaker caught me at the same moment and I heard murmured words above my head before they levered me up. I gathered it was merely a soldier's goodbye, but was surprised when Hugo gestured two guards forward. 

"The materials you requested, Euthonian. Raise them not in anger against our King and you will be permitted your three years leave. Once finished, I expect to see you return to be called for your overdue accounting."

One guard held the same sack that had caused so much trouble, and I spotted a flap of yellow cloak peeking out that betrayed its occupant, now truly deceased. The other held out Aria's own massive crossbow and my comparatively paltry silver dagger. Aria snatched the crossbow back in defiance of propriety but I accepted the blade only to offer its pommel to Hugo himself. 

"Keep it, Captain, as a safeguard. My blacksmith can forge me another, and the King deserves someone who can wield it in his defense if the need is great enough."

He hadn't expected that, and I could see the wheels turning inside his helm, what advantage I would gain, how i would attempt to leverage it down the line. I forestalled that line of thought as best I could, pushing the leather hilt into his hands.

"I mean it truly, Captain. I've prepared you as best I can, but you know this city, these people better. This is your battle, now let me attend to mine."

To his credit, he took the weapon and stood aside. 

"I'm sure it will prove of use." he said stiffly.

"I pray it will not, but in these dark days, prayers should be carefully spoken, lest something else hear you."

Hugo gave me one last, searching look as I strode past him, fumbling as for the first time I truly noted the loss of my hand. Convalescing in a hospital bed under conventional drugs and massive blood loss meant I had spent much of the time sleeping, and the remainder advising the King on his midnight visits. Now, scrabbling fruitlessly at the horn of my saddle, I felt my steed star and nicker in annoyance.

"I know, I know," I muttered in annoyance. "Just let me up and it'll be smooth riding until nightfall".  
I felt someone give me an undignified heave on my rear and I tumbled up and nearly off the other side of the saddle, reflexively leaning against the blow too steady myself. I turned and glared down, only to see the Caretaker's permanent grin, now with what seemed like mischief behind it instead of the madness I was so accustomed to seeing. He bowed in silent mockery and I waved a hand at his own unoccupied horse.

"Very amusing Caretaker. Now come, we've burned enough of the dawn, time to head home."

Aria, for her part, had watched the entire exchange with a smirk on her full lips as her hands ran through the motions of unstringing, testing, and reloading her massive crossbow. 

"I agree milord. Do you want me to tie your horse to mine, make sure it doesn't wander off?"

I rolled my eyes and snatched up the reins.  
"I'll manage, Captain Aria", emphasizing her title, informal though it was. That brought her up short and I whirled my horse, some chestnut brown formerly tied to the carriage, towards the front gates. 

"Last one to the Weald has to buy the first round of drinks!"

I galloped off, Aria in hot pursuit, leaving the Caretaker's wailing protestations about the abandoned wheelhouse behind us.

Week 65, in the Year of Our Light 1554

We made good time, Aria and I and were blessed enough to not encounter any bandits or wandering sellswords. With just the two of us, outpacing the Caretaker by miles and miles, I could almost imagine myself this way if the Estate was untroubled. Wandering from city to town to village, dining in inns or by the roadside, sleeping under trees in the rain, trading stories with Aria of the goings on about the Hamlet, each more outrageous than the last. She made for a good traveling companion, respectful of the distance between our respective positions but eager to talk when I offered a subject. We avoided speculation on the disease currently tearing through our population, trying to avoid the grim thoughts experience in the Weald led us to. I didn't sleep well, trying my best to muffle my cries when I awoke from another dream of bodies stacked in the town square, fire gutting what I had worked hard to rebuild as the shreds of civilization Carter, Reynauld, and I had stitched together finally tore apart under the strain. 

We were two days out, in a shabby little roadside tavern, nursing mugs of watered-down beer that had me pining for the harsh burn of the Sodden Wyrm's own distilleries when the door burst open. A colorful, noisy blur skidded through and vaulted clear over the serving girl as she stood there in astonishment. Aria,s foot moved from her stool and she kicked up her crossbow, grabbing it midair and bracing it against the lip of the bar.

Three men dressed in green and brown charged after the blur, knives in their hands and shouting oaths promising bloody vengeance. They shouldered the girl aside, sending her drinks flying and she cried out as one of their knives licked her upper arm. The blur which had been on its way out the opposite door was suddenly there, resolving itself into a jingling, colorful Fool, red coat, belled cap, and expressionless mask all marking his trade.

One arm caught the girl in a ballroom sway, turning her fall into a graceful spin that sent her sliding onto one of the stools beside us, while the other hand made for the platter and flying drinks. Aria, view now unencumbered, aimed at the jester, but I held out an arm.  
"Wait, let's not get involved. See how this plays out."

The jester was preoccupied with catching the drinks, but I felt his attention focus on us, even as his armes moved the platter left, up, then right, and each mug landed on it right side up, hobby and with some spillage, but largely intact. My eyebrows raised of their own accord, for it had been a truly exemplary performance.

His adversaries had other opinions.

"Give it up Jingles! You led us a merry chase, but it's over now yer horse is dead, yer dagger's stuck in Grimbold, and here's you at the end of your song."  
The man had indeed looked as if he'd been led on a merry chase, in riding leathers and a heavy hood, his stubble and dust spoke of several days hard riding, same as ours.  
I noticed the bartender had disappeared, so it was up to me to be the voice of reason here. At the least, these fellows should have the decency to butcher each other outside. I expressed as much and they all, even the jester, laughed.

"Do y'know what this one's done, Master Drinker?" said the hunter, gesturing with his left hand at the Fool, who had set the platter of drinks on the nearby table and had been edging towards the door.

"Something grave I'd imagine, to have such dedicated hunters on his trail." I said dryly. Aria's crossbow was leveled at the speaking man, who didn't seem the least bit bothered.

"This one killed his Prince and the entire court of Siena, three weeks ago at a feast." said the hunter, a statement which prompted several gasps from the other occupants of the tavern, including myself. The Prince of Sienna, Gian Giacomo de Medici, had not been a great ruler, but he had only just defeated our own French forces not a month earlier, a fact the King told me with some bitterness. To kill one of the Medici...

"And how, Light illuminate us, did an unarmed Fool, manage to kill an entire city's worth of battle-hardened commanders in the middle of a feast?"

"There was a carving knife."

All eyes turned to the jester, who had, for reasons best known to himself, pulled an entire lute from...somewhere and begun strumming it even as the hunters closed in on him. 

"A carving knife of bone and gold,  
so very long and so very cold.  
Gave so many scars, it made me look old,  
that carving knife of bone and gold."

The man who'd been speaking feinted forward with his knife and the jester drew back as the others flanked him.

"That wicked prince up on his throne,  
his idea of fun would cut to the bone  
over and over, 'til I was alone  
One last Fool before the throne"

The masked kept turning, following the hunters as he played. For their part, the men kept glancing down at his hands, which continued to strum away. He could carry a tune, that lilting, youthful voice, but the lute badly needed tuning.

"They left it there, that knife of bone  
ordering me to sing or moan  
whichever one would please the throne  
all I saw was the knife of bone"

The leftmost man charged in and the Jester paused as the verse ended, a hind diving into the body of the lute and pulling out a curved farming sickle. The edge swung forward and the hunter's dagger blocked it, only for the lute to hit him under the jaw in a twang of strings and the creak of abused wood. The man shook his head, but the sickle pushed forward in the brief moment of disorientation and opened his throat.

The Jester flipped the sickle in his hand and threw it over his shoulder, turning as he did so to continue his song.

"I took his hand with that knife of bone  
that wicked Prince away from his throne  
now he did weep and wail and moan  
as I kept going with the knife of bone"

The sickle missed the other hunter's head by the barest of margins as the man twisted to his left and went down in a tangle of chairs. The sickle continued its flight and embedded itself in the bar's wooden surface. The Jester shrugged, as if to say "what can you do" before he too was brought down by the lead hunter into the forest of tables and chairs as customers fled. My mouth dropped open as the lute continued.

One, two, three, four five  
Learn to dance to stay alive  
forward and back, turn and thrive  
A Fool and a knife in a maddened hive"

I saw them grappling together, the Fool still strumming and using the lute like a shield as his adversary's knives failed to find flesh. Aria shot me a look and my mind raced. To help or not? 

I'd only just disentangled myself from the politics of the King and the Church, helping a proven murderer of a foreign Prince would drag me right back in. On the other hand, the Prince had recently defeated our own Henry II and the King had taken it personally. I'd left Paris with a three-year death sentence on my head, anything to lighten the King's mood would help, such as the delivery of our taxes in addition to his enemy's head. Figuratively, of course.

"Some of the men went for the door  
I tackled them down, they stayed on the floor  
The knife was made to cut a boar  
Again and again, always more!"

I head a cry of pain from the Jester as a knife finally struck home, but his legs flung themselves into the air in a queer twist that had him back on his feet, holding a much-abused barely functioning lute. He now held it like a club, all pretense of showmanship gone. Besides his voice continued the tune well enough.

"After the racket, I was alone  
Alone and cold in a hall of stone  
Alone with a lute, a knife of bone,  
And a crown that had fallen from the throne"

The two hunters clambered to their feet with decidedly less grace, sporting bruises and cuts from their scuffle on the floor. The one who'd first fallen had lost his knives in the scuffle, but his gloves sported metal plates that would still do damage to the unarmored jester. The leader still had his, one with blood dripping down to stain the floor. The other patrons had fled, now it was only myself, Aria, the two hunters, and "Jingles". We could hear the jester's ragged breath, and I took the opportunity to down the last of my mug.

"Any last words?" growled the leader, his lip curling in disgust.

The jester, somehow, still retained the tune as he hissed the last stanza.

"No regret have I for the things I did  
A kettle will pop if you abandon the lid  
Now here I am stuck in the middle,  
with a knife, a tune, and an old, old, fiddle!"

They charged forward and the jester swung the lute with the full force of his body, pivoting on his hips as the instrument exploded into wooden shards and wires against the leader's head, even as the knife stabbed into the Fool's stomach. 

The jester allowed himself to collapse to his knees as the survivor's punch became a grab, dragging his cap and backwards, fouling his vision as more blows pummeled him. That was enough.

"Aria, target the hunter, if you would."

To her credit, she didn't hesitate and the bolt, which was more like a small ballista, embedded itself in the hunter's upper back with a "TUNG", the final note in the evening's performance.

She busied herself reloading the monstrous contraption as I hurried over and dragged the corpse away. The lead hunter was either dead, unconscious, or disfigured enough to wish he was, for the released tension of the lute wires had drawn deep furrows in his left cheek and across his nose. The jester, covered in blood and spilt mugs of beer, was very much alive and wrenched off his cap and mask even as I bent to help him up.

His features matched his voice, startlingly young, with clear blue eyes and short brown hair and a mouth that already twisted into an easy grin. Features that would've made him the object of many a maid's desire were marred, however, by a series of vicious scars across the lips, forehead, and cheeks that gave him the impression of an old war veteran like Barristan. He clasped my hand and I pulled him to his feet even as he moaned and made to clutch his side.

"Are you alright?"

"Not my best performance..." he groaned through clenched teeth, "but I'll get far enough away to trouble you no more, fair tavern owner. No need to call the gendarmes on me."

"Nonsense." I said brusquely.  
"A performance like that deserves a reward. I thought the finale was a nice touch, if a little hard on your tools."

He looked down at the shattered remnants of the lute and his face fell.

"Well, there goes my career as 'Jingles' ".

"Again, I must beg to differ. You'll find I reward my employees far better than your previous employer if this was your severance package."

He chuckled and then groaned. "That's good, that's very good, I'll have to remember that one. And you are?"

"Head of the Euthonian Family, currently busy saving your life."

I turned. "Aria, go get your bag. You were a field medic, yes?"

"Aye milord, but the bounty hunters?"

"Will not be any more trouble. Leave me your crossbow if you must, that way I can hold them off until you return from upstairs with your equipment."

The archer rolled her eyes but left, slinging her crossbow over her shoulder as she did. With her departure, curious and frightened heads began to poke back into the destroyed bar. I lowered the jester onto the edge of a table and began to cautiously probe his torso after a nodded assent. I wasn't a doctor, but then neither was Carter and she was running our Sanitarium. Nonetheless, I'd picked up a few things after running so many expeditions, performing frantic first aid while things shrieked around us. We'd make do. I kept up a running commentary to keep the Jester focused.

"Cut seems clean, no cloth went into the wound, less likely to be infected. Wound location indicates possible kidney laceration, stomach lining at worst. Pummelling means possible internal bleeding."

I held up three fingers. "Count how many."

I watched as his eyes focused in on my hand, no delay. "Three." He took a deep breath and I cursed as more blood began to flow from his wound. I prayed to the Light he didn't have a punctured lung. My magic could do a great deal with blood, but internal organs were tricky without opening someone "all the way up" by which point they were likely dead already. A few hand signs and an application of my Will had the blood moving, slowly, back into his body. 

"So, do you have a name besides 'Jingles'?" I asked, more to keep his attention off my magic than any pressing need to learn his name. 

"Tourney. S' where I was born, from a hedge knight."

"And was your skill with," I mimed a stabbing motion, "all learned on the job?"

He grimaced in disgust but nodded. "Fools 're always a target and my father wanted to be sure I'd live to see the end of my act. Sure saw the end of his, caught a lance through the armpit when I was twelve. Ma was long gone by then. Now your turn."

"I'm the current head of House Euthonian, recently tasked by the King with restoring my Estate to its former glory and protecting the realm from its current..." I paused, gauging the many eyes and ears around us, stepping carefully around us and the bodies as the server and patrons alike worked to clear the broken furniture. "Inhabitants." I finished, rather lamely.

Thank the Light, Aria chose that moment to bustle back down the stairs, her bronzed armor and speedy gait clearing a path ahead of her amid the scrum.

"Alright, alright, out of the way, you lot. Got a patient here that needs lookin' after!"

She slung the bag down on the bench and took out a large dagger, from which Tourney flinched away from, nearly rolling off the table as I held and steadied him.

"Easy, there, easy. Just need to get you out of the shirt."

"But it's the only one I've got" protested the youth.

"I'll buy you a dozen like it, with armor and padding besides. You put on an impressive show after all, and my respect has many rewards."

"So what," he asked bitterly,"you expect me to be your assassin, your Fool? I've had enough of high-born lads and lasses playin' tricks on me, all thinking' it's all in good fun just 'cause of the hat n'bells."

"You watch your tongue around milord!" snapped Aria, pressing down with a bandage perhaps slightly harder than necessary.

"Aria." I chided, cutting off my Will as the blood ceased to flow from the jester, now stripped half naked and splayed out on the dining table. "You're taking all this rather well, for your first surgery."

"Like I said, the Prince had his ideas of fun."

There were whip scars on his back, and a thin line on his chest, but his lower body was both hairless and scarless. Aria and I exchanged a look, debating possibilities through gesture and eyes alone, souvenirs of skulking around the Warrens.

Torture? Hostage? I asked.

Weapon present, imminent combat, No. Brothel. signed Aria.

Reluctant agreement, return to Hamlet? I replied.

Strong agreement, all haste, cover the rear.

Can be moved?

No. Six weeks, move in an emergency only. 

I wracked my brain, but none of the signs we'd come up with described the Caretaker, with the carriage. He was following behind us, but perhaps two days behind, taking the same path we were and likely growing steadily more irritated with every mile that separated us. If the boy couldn't be moved by horse, the carriage, slow as it was, would help. We turned back to Tourney, who'd been watching the exchange silently with narrowed eyes.

"Care to explain what that was all about?" he asked.

"Medical diagnosis, plain and simple. We're going to try and move you upstairs to a proper bed now the bleeding has stopped. My townsfolk have been experiencing some hard times lately, and I think you're just the person to help me lift their spirits."

"What kind of hard times?" 

I hedged. Fishmen and malevolent plagues from corpse-animating mushrooms were not on the normal Lord's radar. But...

"Wild boars." I managed. "They've been harassing the town and spreading all sorts of disease, hopefully my men will have things sorted by the time we returned." Behind Tourney, checking the pulse of the disfigured leader, Aria mouthed "wild boars" at me with an incredulous expression.

Tourney didn't buy it. "Never heard wild boars to spread disease. Spread your guts, more like."

"My kennel's dogs have escaped and gone wild in the woods, they chased the boars into town, and we've been trying to contain the mess, but I'm afraid the old man trained his hounds too well." Another technical truth. The wild and possibly reanimated dogs had been running havoc through the woods and every time one of our teams tangled with them, it never ended well. I gestured to Aria. "Let's go, we're moving him."

Because the Light gives and takes, the door to the bar burst open once more, followed by a burly man wielding a club, followed by a shaggy hunting dog and the trembling barkeeper. So that's where he'd scurried off to.

"Gentlemen!" I announced, "Excellent timing. Gendarme, you're just in time to help relocate this poor young man to a proper healing bed."

The policeman looked confused and lowered his truncheon fractionally, then as he took in the bodies it rose once more. His voice was deep but hoarse from shouting. "You're removing him from the scene of the murder, is what you're doing."

"This man is in my employ and was viciously assaulted by these vagabonds as they mistook him for someone else. Now are you going to help us or not?"

He looked at me, projecting my best I-am-the-Heir aura of authority, at Aria, who was winding bandages around a weakly protesting Tourney, and at the surrounding crowd of onlookers. I sent up another prayer that as long as the Light was shining, it should really shine a bit more on this poor jester.

"It's true sir," the barmaid piped up, wiping her hands on her apron. "He was helping me with the drinks when those men came barging in and thought he was some criminal who they'd been after in Italy, said he'd look similar enough when they removed his head."

I bent down and stuffed the jester hat into my pocket, ruffling through the dead man's pockets and found a crumpled Wanted Poster, handing it to the Gendarme.

"Answers to the name Jingles, performs with a lute, wanted for the murder of Princeipe de Sirena, Gian Giacomo Medici. Reward for his head, 25,000 ducats."

The lawman looked from the sketch to the scarred, emaciated man on his elbows as Aria forced him back down, whispering a litany of unpleasant treatments she could give him.  
"Boy's too old for this, and I don't see a lute." he paused, his eyes scanning the scene. "And the sickle?"

"He's a farmhand, sir. He was merely taking a break from the fields with me, while we discussed the harvest."

The gendarme's look nearly turned me to stone. "It's July. Too early for harvest."  
I felt a drop of sweat roll down my forehead and cursed it silently. "No reason to avoid planning ahead."

The bearded man looked down and gave a sharp whistle, for the dog to trot forward. "What do you thing Belle? What does your nose tell us?"

The bar stared dumbfounded as the dog sniffed at Tourney's fingers, licked them twice, then circled over to the sickle in the wall and barked twice.  
"It's his sickle alright." The man knelt to check the bodies, his truncheon still at the ready. He felt for a pulse and nodded, pleased to have found one on the disfigured leader. Her rose and effortlessly tugged the sickle from the wall. "Belle seems to like him, and her judgement goes a long way with me. You keep a tighter hold on your youth there. Don't want any more trouble here."

I nodded gravely as did Tourney and Aria. I shot the barmaid a look of silent gratitude and promised to pay for a week's worth of drinks to repay the damage. We'd have to stay under the trees for the rest of the journey, but I'd about had my fill of inns. 

The gendarme holstered his club and made some clicking noise with his tongue. Belle ambled over and bent down next to the table. With the bearded lawman helping and the dog providing a stable base, the four of us carried up Tourney to his will deserved rest.

I was sitting next to his bed the following morning, reading an account of the Pelopennesian Wars, grasping for any additional shred of tactics I could wring from it. The undead were firmly shut into the catacombs by heavy wood-and-iron gates to the mausoleums, and the Cove rarely exposed by the low tide. The fishermen's activity seemed to correspond with the cycles of the moon as well as, Carter had theorized, the menarche of their Siren. The Weald was vast and impossible to fully control, I already knew we'd be dealing with that particular environ for the rest of my days, but the Warrens presented a special problem. The Pig-men, or corpses partially possessed by monstrosities from Beyond, seemed self-perpetuating. Villagers had disappeared, only for their personal effects to be slung around the neck of some new half-porcine, half-man thing with an axe or skin-stretched drum. There were simply too many exits from the Warrens for us to lock them down, pen and trap the beasts for sufficient slaughter. Most troublesome....

"Hello?"

I peered over the top of my book at Tourney's face, clammy from sweat and blood loss. "Ah, Tourney, good to have you back in the land of the living. I have some soup and water here for you. The young lady you saved yesterday wanted to give you all sorts of treats, but Aria wants you on soups alone until she's sure your stomach or intestine weren't injured. For all her brusque ways, she's very devoted to her patients."

"Why?"

"Well I suppose it's in her nature to not leave anyone behind. I once helped her carry our colleague Oola through two miles of caves and slopes, then down the hill to safety."

"No, I mean, why did you help me? I never agreed to join you and I refuse to let you drag me to your own court, no matter how good you make it sound."  
He made to get out of bed, but I pressed the bowl of soup into his hands and he fell back, propped onto the pillows.

"I'm hardly the sort of person to have a court." I scoffed. "An army, yes. An entourage of my best, both men and women."  
"Both? You mean caravan followers and brothel-goers? Even worse. I told you, I'm done with that life."  
"It is for your music that I mean to have you Tourney. I speak truly when I say my little Hamlet has suffered greatly in the past years, and they could do with some cheer, someone to remind them life is worth living beyond the simple carnal aspects. If someone like you can see the worst in Man and still take the time to save a barmaid at great personal risk, well I think that's the sort of person this world deserves to have more of."

Tourney turned the bowl of soup upwards, throat moving as he abandoned the spoon entirely. When he was done, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, expression mulish.  
" I don't want to do any more killing."  
"You may take a vow of pacifism as far as I'm concerned."  
"I won't let you hurt people."  
"Rest assured, I do no such thing."

Send them into maddening battles, risking life, limb, and sanity to protect France, yes. But I had yet to kill a true human being with my own hands. I had no illusions that would last.

The jester was silent for a while and I, assuming the conversation was over, made to return to my book.  
"I'll need a new lute."

"Tourney, I shall let you pick the strings yourself."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't expect this chapter to happen at all, but Tourney the Jester sort of writes himself. I'm hoping to get better at writing engaging action scenes and making sure dialogue flows, so tell me what works and what doesn't. 
> 
> The Prince Tourney kills is real, but he didn't die in 1554. Still, King Henry II did manage to take the city the following year in 1555, so the anarchy caused by a mere jester going all Arya Stark on the ruling class would certainly help. I do admit it's unrealistic for the King to still be in Paris when he'd so recently been beaten on the field of battle, but as we've established, this isn't a documentary. 
> 
> I'm also trying to let the Heir develop more of a personality, namely someone who wants the best for his people, but is willing to get dirty to do it. He snapped up Tourney because he senses a golden opportunity and because if there really is a plague going through the Hamlet, he needs someone to distract the survivors from awareness of their own mortality. Don't want everyone to get the Thanatophobia quirk.


	8. Death, Disease, and other Inconveniences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Heir and his entourage arrive home. Trigger Warning for Child Death.

Still Week 65 in the Year of Our Light 1554

The next few days passed pleasantly enough after the spasm of violence in the bar below us. It was the way of things in the Hamlet as well. Brief, terrifying, violence and trauma over the course of a few nights huddled around a campfire while others took watch and you prayed to not feel a knife in your ribs upon waking. Then, a few weeks of rest and recuperation while another team of mercenaries, zealots, or assorted hangers-on went through the same thing somewhere else. I hadn't been able to dig any more insights out of Thucydides, Euripides, or any of the Ancients so lauded in my university. In the meantime, I had the gendarme, William and his dog to keep me company. He'd helped get rid of the bodies and sent the sole surviving hunter on his way without our two parties ever crossing paths, for which I was grateful. Still, he kept popping into the inn at odd hours "just for a drink" or "Belle here was looking thirsty". I didn't trust him.

I was bad at lying, but he'd chosen to believe my story anyway, even when to do otherwise would have netted him a great deal of money.

Was it religion? France followed the Church of Light while the newer Church of Blood and the Huguenots, of whose source I was unsure, had strong followings in Italy. Was it a simple dislike of foreigners? Aria's deep brown and dreadlocks didn't trouble him in the slightest. He hadn't asked me to pay him, and seemed to be the sole police officer in this small town, which admittedly, must've been boring. 

I couldn't decide, while he knew we were hiding a dangerous murderer. What's more, he knew that I knew that he knew. I had hoped to leave that kind of interpersonal skullduggery back in Paris, but no such Light.

Fortunately, the Caretaker and his wagon rolled up shortly, with the rake-thin man listing off all the horrible things that could've happened to his Heir on the road while Aria and I packed our bags. I'd bought Tourney a new shirt, just as red as his old one, and kept his sickle and belled cap for later, once we were out of the lawman's sight. He'd mended surprisingly well, but Aria expected him to not be battle-ready for another five weeks. Due to his repeated protests, I hadn't mentioned the possibility of further fighting to Tourney, but a talent like that was too good to keep on the sidelines. I had several pleasant daydreams of him carving through pig-men, a sign how far from morality the Estate had dragged me, but it was no great matter. Tourney now lay sprawled across the roof of the carriage as we lashed the luggage behind him to make a perfect seat. 

The Caretaker had protested at an additional guest, but Tourney held that he enjoyed the air and besides the carriage could only comfortably carry two anyway. I chose to ignore the many times I had seen the same carriage roll over the bridge with some half dozen desirables all over the top and sides of the carriage, leaning forward to see the already legendary Euthonian Estate. Those fighters and monks who had seen too much or were becoming more expensive to house than their fighting skill had been summarily dismissed, their contracts voided and given a polite but firm "Good Light shine upon you!" by the Caretaker along with their pay.

Enough had talked for tales to have spread even to the capitol and the King, but how wild the tales, I had no idea. Tourney provided an answer three days into the next leg of our journey, less than a day from the Weald and the bumpy, bandit-infested Old Road. 

"So tell me," he called down "Is it true you've got a dragon under your hill, and you're sending teams in to steal its treasure?"

Aria and I laughed. "Is that really what the rumors say?" she called back over the clopping of hooves.

"Oh no, that was one of the tamer ones. Other barroom tales say you fight cloven-hoofed demons and invisible giants."

Once again, a grain of truth. Aria looked at me and I shrugged. Short of physically showing them, no one believed us until the truth was trying to cut their head off, and sometimes not even then. We'd lost a coterie of nuns that way.

"Well, the giants aren't invisible, thank the Light" I replied, affecting a breezy tone.

"And the pigs sometimes have human feet, so it's not exactly false" chimed in Aria.

There was silence from up above.  
"You're pulling my leg."

"Nope!"

More silence and I hoped the Jester wouldn't leap off the carriage and make a run for it.

"HA! Sounds like the most noble Heir does speak the truth. If you lot have to see that, my face will look downright Light-blessed in comparison."

"Some ladies like the scars." chided Aria.  
Was that-  
Was she making a pass at him?

I returned my face to the book, an account of the Punic Wars, and tried not to look at her. Tourney's voice had a way of ringing clear in my head though.

"Most don't, but more power to 'em. So what's it like in this Hamlet of yours? The Heir makes it sound like it's every man, woman, an' child at the barricades, save for me an' my milk o' human kindness."

He was putting on an accent! They were flirting! I stared fiercely at Caesar's description of Boudica, the wild warrior woman who fought against him so fiercely, but the words meant nothing.

"It was a downright wreck before the Heir got there, sure enough. But now it's got all the comforts and coin besides. To keep the fighting' men an' women happy, we've got all sorts to keep busy. A bar, a gambling hall, a Sanitarium for those that need some rest, the Barracks for some regular shut-eye, and the Guild for trainin'".

I turned a page I hadn't read and noticed she hadn't mentioned the brothel. Smart woman.

She dug into the bag at her feet and rustled around. "Doc Carter's the one on the left there. My friend Tally-Ho draws in his spare time, said it helped him catch a few bounties with better descriptions."

She made to hand up the sketch, but the guarded voice gave her pause. "Another bounty hunter? Not gonna be a problem is it Lord Fancy Pants?"

I maintained my cover. "Shouldn't be a problem, Tally-Ho's too committed to chopping up fish-men to have time for your bounty. Plus, he'd have to make the trek all the way to Italy and he'd refuse to go."

Aria held her hand back out, and a hand reached down to take the sketch. The hand lingered a bit longer than necessary on hers, but I was not looking. I refused to be involved in whatever this was. I had an Estate to run, not-

"So why's his name Tally-Ho? Not the sort of name thieves run in fear from, is it?"

By the Light, I could hear the grin in Aria's voice! Was the Caretaker as uncomfortable as I?

"It's what he shouts every time we enter battle, says it scares the cultists something fierce and I'm inclined to believe him."

"Cultists too? Of what?"

"Strictly a local madness," I lied, peeking over the book. Aria was grinning ear to ear as she played with a roll of bandages. "Nothing for the Great Churches to concern themselves with."  
What they worshipped beyond the nebulous concept of the "Old Gods" we did not know, nor did we wish to find out. That their Prophet had torn out his eyes indicated such knowledge would be unwelcome. Aria thankfully chimed in.

"Whole bunch of nutters, not wearin' much, and screaming like the cockcrow every time somethin' blessed so much as bumps them. We've got a whole-"  
She turned to me. "What's a group of nuns called? A gaggle? A flock?"

"You're thinking of birds."

"No I'm not, I've heard the blacksmith mumble something about a gaggle of schoolgirls before."

I searched my memory, book and pretense alike now abandoned. "My Father once referred to them as a superfluity of nuns, meaning superfluous."   
She gave me a blank stare.  
"He meant necessary or unwelcome. My Father held strong views on the position of women in polite society. But I believe the more polite term is a sisterhood of nuns."

She grinned at me and pulled a crossbow bolt from her ponytail, twirling it around her fingers. "Well I'm glad you're not what he expected."

I saw Tourney peeking in from the top of the windowsill and allowed myself a smile. "Fair Aria, you are but one good example of how our Estate is not what anyone expected. I say Tourney there has his work cut out for him."

The head vanished as Aria turned in her seat. I mustered my considerable willpower as I felt my lips begin to twitch. I would not laugh, I would not encourage-Oh Light!

The jester's hand appeared, holding the sketch and a freshly plucked daffodil, still warm from the summer sun.

Both Aria and Tourney laughed while I put my head in my hands. One more day. One more day.  
Tonight was going to be miserable.

As I expected, they both slipped away from the fire that night, she to "stand guard" and he to "clean this bandage".   
What rot. I, for one, had the first watch, and Aria had changed the bandage earlier in the evening, moving her hands over far more than just his wounded side. I fervently wished for a mug of the Sodden Wench's hardest drink, only a shade from paint thinner, but alas. I stared across at the Caretaker's eternal grin as giggling began to emerge from the trees.   
"I'd heard of falling in love with a nurse, but this is going a shade too far."

The Caretaker shrugged and opened a flask. "They're happy. Let them be happy. When a tree grows dry and hard, it dies. It must flower and bloom with life to truly prosper."

I raised my eyebrows. "Never been my focus, always the next book, the next idea to chase."

"Never?"

"Well," I demurred, "Nothing serious."

"The High and Lonely Duty of a Noble House is to be held above all others, Father." he intoned, voice trying for deep but managing only a lower rasp, accompanied by his own high-pitched giggle.

I nearly dropped my book in the fire. "You're imitating my Father? How'd you know?"

"A servant hears many things, and repeats few."

"Any more nuggets of wisdom for me tonight?"

Now the grin was real, a slight widening around the corners of the mouth. "Only that failure is the greatest teacher."

The sounds from the woods became a good deal more carnal and I shoved my pack over my head. Aria was loud, Light help me.

_________

The moment we arrived in the Hamlet, all mirth in the carriage died. I'd been on the lookout for bandits, but only a great number of bodies on the side of the road, many decaying in the summer sun. The stench was abominable, and the Hamlet smelled like a great roast itself, the smell of cooked flesh reaching to the heavens. 

"You answered the letter. Now, like me, you are a part of this place..."

"Did you do this?" I hissed out the window, hoping the others didn't hear me. "Is this some petty vengeance from beyond the grave?"   
But the voice, as always, didn't respond. I leaped out of the still-moving carriage and into the stream, my worst fears confirmed as I rushed up the slope and into the town square, banging on doors. The Sodden Wyrm's windows were shuttered, the door locked, the house next to it similarly stymied me. So did the third, fourth, and fifth. I was frantic now, running pell-mell down the streets, empty and devoid of all life.

"HELLO?" I shouted at the top of my lungs. "Anyone?"

Aria and Tourney came up behind me, the jester clutching his sickle and Aria her crossbow. "Milord, calm down, the entire Hamlet couldn't have died, things would look worse, right?"

I paused. True, there were no bodies in the streets, as there had been on the Old Road, but Reynauld, Barristan, and Carter would have organized corpse collection teams. 

"Was it like this when you left?"

Aria looked nonplussed. "No, not at all. People were keeping their distance, but the Sodden Warm was still open, Sivada still sold trinkets from her carriage. Many of the children and Old Nan had gotten sick, but it was only when the first dozen adults fell ill that Carter and Barristan took charge." Her voice softened. "Reynauld was one of the first, you know how he is."

With his penchant for nabbing gold off of corpses alongside saving babes in trees? Yes I knew how Reynauld was. 

"There!" Tourney pointed at a column of people heading down the way from the distant figure of the Church of Light on the hill. Vast billows of smoke, some truly tremendous fire, rose from behind it. I wracked my memory, but all I could remember in that direction was a few boulders and a gently climbing slope up to the shell of the Manor.

"Let's go."

The three of us moved at speed, I in front, Tourney behind, and Aria at the tail. I still didn't have a weapon, but at that moment, I felt like I could've ripped the Collector apart with my bare hands. As we ran, the mass of people resolved into the figure of Abbott Gregory at the head of the procession, with Junia and Grimmaldus behind him looking, well, grim.

"Ah, Dear Heir, thank goodness you've returned." said the abbott, with genuine joy in his voice. "And with new faces too, though I daresay we'll need a few more now Sir Barristan has things under wraps!"

"Not the best choice of words, Father!" hissed Junia, who's scandalous resting face for once was appropriate to the situation.

"Indeed." rumbled Grimmaldus, crossing his arms. "Though he is correct that the Light follows suffering with enlightenment and renewal. It is how It illuminates the Way."

"Under wraps?" I repeated dumbly.

"On the whole." rumbled the flagellant. "Sir Barristan and Miss Carter did not join the procession. They are at the pyre, beyond."

Without even a goodbye, I raced onwards, my eyes flicking over the procession, searching faces. Tally-Ho, Old Ben, Oola, Dismas, thank the Light!

"What happened?" I fairly clung to his coat, the scarf still present even amid the heat of the summer.

Dismas was silent and I knew he was exchanging silent countersign above my head with Aria. 

"Plague was some sort of diversion." he finally said. "A bunch of witches out in the Weald cooked it up to steal the kids for cooking, thought it'd make the meat less tough."

"A diversion?" I was repeating a great deal today. "She poisoned the entire Hamlet just as a diversion?"

I was once again reminded of how very out of my depth I still was. Blood magic and bindings couldn't fight off an ill wind or an invisible plague. If they could, I hadn't found that spell yet.

"It's what one of the smaller ones said. We caught her searching for medicinal herbs Doc Carter needed."

"And how do you know she was telling the truth?"

"I asked her." said Dismas gruffly. "For five hours, by way of my dirk."

I straightened up, truly appraising him for the first time since my return. He looked thinner than ever, and his eyes had dark circles underneath them. The scarf hid his mouth, but he looked haunted.   
" I thought you said you didn't do that anymore."

"I've got a code. One that says no dead kids."

"Thank you Dismas." I clasped his shoulder. "I mean it."

We found Barristan and Carter just where the others had said, standing in front of a truly massive bonfire beyond the reach of the Church, on a barren patch of earth. I saw small hands in the fire crumble and blacken and looked away.

"How many did we lose?" 

I didn't even say hello.

"Three hundred and eight." said Carter softly. "Including those who will die this week, but they can still surprise us. Reynauld beat it, near flooded the Church when he said the Light aided in his recovery, just caused the early cases to infect healthy people. Damn him."

"Better than tearing your Sanitarium apart trying to get at your medicine. I had a near riot the same week, or didn't you notice the number of torches outside?"

"Sir Barristan please!"

"Those blasted witches put it in the air, then poisoned the well when we started carrying water to the sick. I evacuated the town up the hill to the Ruins and sent teams into the Coves and catacombs to find our water source."

"Abandoning my teams down here!"

"Prioritizing the Hamlet's survival!"

"You-"

"ENOUGH!" I roared, suddenly, almost painfully angry. "I don't care who's fault it was, only that the problem was SOLVED! HALF this hamlet is dead while you try to apportion blame, Reynauld's caused a religious resurgence just after I finished explaining to the King, THE KING! That I would no longer be involved in the wider politics of the Church! He sent me the Collector's head as some form of proof, only to have it burn half the King's guard to death and cause a spectacle that had Paris in an uproar! Now, tell me where the man is or I will pull your GUTS out and make you EAT THEM!"

I was shaking, nearly volcanic in my fury, felt my blood begin to churn inside me as it sensed my emotional state and began to respond. I could do it too. I knew the spell. I wanted to. Light above and beyond, how I wanted to.

"Enough Milord."

It was Aria, her hand firm upon my shoulder, turning me away. "This has been a difficult time for us all. You can speak to Reynauld tomorrow. He's probably beating himself up over this more than you could."

I looked up at Tourney, at the naked fear on the man's face and my heart sank like a rock. I'd been hoping this man would join us, see our cause and people as worthy to fight for, or at least bring a little joy to the Hamlet. Now he would never do either, not when I'd just proven myself every bit the tyrant he'd slain months before. The anger drained away, leaving only a deep exhaustion. 

"I'm sorry." I whispered, to my commanders, to the jester, to the fire, to myself. "I'm sorry I wasn't there to save you."

I numbly heard Aria try to move me, only for Barristan, then Tourney's voices say something else. The others moved away, save for Carter, who sat next to me in the grass. We sat and watched the fire burn. Burn the corpses, burn the disease, burn the logs, burn down until there were only embers. She said nothing over those long hours and I was grateful. What is there to say, in the face of so much death, all at once? So indiscriminate?

When I sent men and women on missions, I knew they might die, that there was a better than even chance of it if they were new, or had no combat experience, or had brought only a dagger and some charms. But I was able to choose, to balance a neophyte with an experienced veteran like Oola or Ballique. Even Dismas, as much as he might grumble, would look out for the newcomers when things got rough. I'd seen Carter patch the holes in his padded cloak myself. I'd learned medical techniques at her side, even as she protested that she wasn't even an accredited doctor. But something like this, I had no control over. 

Three hundred and eight dead. 

Just over half the Hamlet.

The thriving, recuperating town that had been buttressed by my army now back to the shattered wreckage of lives, inhabited by the ghosts that had once called them home. I thought back to the Caretaker's words the night before. "Failure is the greatest teacher." I said aloud into the dark and Carter nodded her bird-masked head. 

"I've had to watch all those people die around me, but each one, I learned a little bit. I learned it attacked the immune system directly, shut down the lymphatic nodes, left the body to slowly poison itself as the blood turned toxic. I tried leeches, I tried bleeding, I tried my most potent antivenoms, they only slowed it down. Made them suffer more."

Her voice turned bitter. "The fucking flagellants figured it out, the bloody Church of Blood, of course. They'd tried whipping, removing blood from the body, but what about adding it, introducing new blood? More died as we built, bags and tubes and compressors we had to pump manually. But not anyone's blood would do. Some accepted it and survived, others were poisoned faster, died faster, couldn't tell why, no matter ow many variables I isolated." She pulled back her hood and ran her gloved fingers through her sweaty, short black hair. " Wore out every single one of the nuns, had to hire backup nurses at three times the cost from the other soldiers, some few brave civilians. You'll find your coffers more empty than you left them, My Heir."

I waved the idea aside, even though I had been, well, bleeding coin badly over the course of this trip. There would be more money. Somehow. "What worked?"

"The chained man, the one the brothel boys call 'Man-Eater" and the religious types call "an Abomination". He's an abnormality for sure. His veins already had some kind of toxins in them, some side-effect of what he'd done or had done to himself, whatever."

I waited patiently. She needed to say it as much as I needed to hear it. The drained feeling that had filled me while staring at the bonfire was being filled back up with every sentence the plague doctor spoke.

"But he was still alive, still breathing. Hells, every time I tried to get a blood sample he'd transform and nearly tear my head off, ran out of biscuits to give the creature."

I imagined Carter, running in circles around the operating table, throwing biscuits into the mouth of the ravening creature that walked on two legs like a man, then four for speed. It was fairly funny, but I still couldn't bring myself to laugh. I smiled, though.

"Finally managed to stun it with a flashbomb, took the sample, then got the hells out of there. It was worth every circuit of that room. Not only was he immune to the disease, but his blood was some kind of skeleton key. Every lock, no matter the size or shape of the keyhole could take it, no rejections across fifty patients, and forty one of them survived the disease after that."

I tried to imagine the idea, but my limited medical knowledge failed me. "Is your skeleton key metaphor suggesting what I think it is?"

Even through the mask, I could tell Carter shot me a Look.  
"I didn't think the Heir of House Euthonian would resort to scatological humor, especially after you threatened to feed me my lower intestine. But no, it is not. I simply injected every resident of the Hamlet with a portion of the "Man-Eater's" blood, mixed with a saline solution to aid dispersal. Nearly drained the beast dry in doing so, but he survived. Something about seeing sickly children made it more cooperative."

"So he and Dismas have something in common."

Carter leaned back and undid the straps, removing her mask entirely as I gaped. She never, NEVER, removed her mask outdoors. It was nearly pathological with her under normal circumstances, and now she was standing right next to a bonfire made of the same plague victims.

"If you're making jokes again, you've calmed down a bit. Listen, I tested and tested until I was sleeping under my desk, but Reynauld was out there in the thick of it, in just his armor. Carrying sickly women to their husbands, building barricades, got himself lost in the Weald searching for the source and wandered back into town delirious from lack of sleep. I may have saved the people, but he and Barristan saved the Hamlet itself. We disagree on how they accomplished it, and I still have my objections, but you should at least hear them out. I wasn't involved in those expeditions Barristan mentioned, but they killed some vast Hag-witch, saved a bunch of missing kids I'd just assumed had died among the chaos, and cleansed the water supply."

"How'd they do that if the well was poisoned?"

She shrugged, removing one heavy glove. Underneath the layers of protective leather and sealant, Carter was not what my Father would have termed 'a beautiful woman'. She was short, mousey, with slightly curly black hair, and nearly sallow, with prominent cheekbones. She stank of some combination of body odor, chemicals, and the stench of the bonfire. But she had the unmarked hands of a virtuoso, a pianist with magical skill. I had seen those gloved hands operate on a nervous Ballique as I had poured laudanum down the patient's throat. I had seen her throw a glass jar of acid with perfect accuracy across a furious melee to melt the head of a courtier standing over a fallen Aria. Without the gloves, they were the hands of someone who could make things dance in her grip...

I noticed I was staring and averted my gaze. Was this what it was? That elusive attraction that had swept Aria and Tourney off their feet? What the brothel denizens inspired in their customers? My riding leathers suddenly seemed uncomfortably hot, though I was wearing far less than she. Carter was talking again.

"So the vestals said the holy water flushed out the foulness while Old Ben and his "ancient knowledge" thought their sigils all over the walls did it. I don't care how, as long as they can stop it from happening again. And on that note..."

Without warning, she pulled a syringe the size of a short sword from her belt and jammed it into my arm.

"OW! Carter, by the Light-"

"Just insanguinated you, you're welcome. Beastman blood, so you won't start this whole plague all over. I'll be sure to get the others jabbed before the night is over. I'm eighty-five percent sure we won't all turn into goat-men tomorrow, so you don't have to worry about that."

She smiled and tucked her hair back behind her ear as she shoved the empty syringe into one of her bottomless pockets. Light, this was what it felt like. I'd seen that gesture performed hundreds of times in the streets absently, during missions with vague annoyance, at the Grand Ballrooms of Febres to send a message, but this one...

"What is it, Heir?"

I realized my mouth had dropped open and slammed it shut so hard my teeth clacked. "Just...thinking about Reynauld as a beast-man. He'd never come out of the abbey or just fall on his own sword."

Carter gave her hair one last rub, putting every curl in place, then promptly ruined it by latching the straps of her mask back on, followed by the hood.   
"Now you're just being foolish. Get up and come with me, the people need to see you alive and cheery. Go drink at the Wyrm or something."

"Not sure I can manage cheery yet, there's a great deal to do now I've returned, especially-"  
"Shut up and smile Heir. I can make it a doctor's order, drug you up so you smile for the next month, high as a kite."

The smile on my face wasn't entirely fake, but it wasn't wholehearted either.  
"It'll do. So, tell me about that fellow with the scars and sickle, where'd you pick him up?"

"A bar fight actually. Aria could tell the story better than me."

"You're a very wordy Euthonian, I doubt that."

We moved off towards the Sodden Wyrm, the door open as customers flooded back in after the procession. There would be a great many empty chairs and empty tables there tonight, and for many nights to come. But someday it would be full again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I fudge the timelines of Darkest Dungeon. The Black Plague does not function this way, and happened far earlier in the 12th and 13th centuries, but I reckon follow-along plagues could still occur in isolated areas, especially magical plagues. Carter and the DD world's medical knowledge is questionable, as they still use leeches, but her comic shows a more Victorian-era medical school and the presence of syringes mean the removal and examination of blood and other bodily fluids is possible. In the real world, it took a very, very long time for blood transfusion to reliably work, as well as the discovery of how blood types interact, but plagues did push doctors to try experimental, even dangerous ideas just in case they worked. Plus, I figured that because the flagellants of the Church of Blood were so obsessed, they'd know a little bit about different types of blood, but might figure it out more by "feel" or even taste than something scientific like Carter or Aria would want.
> 
> The Abomination's blood already has advantages to it, because of his "Eldritch Blood" ability which grants bleed, blight, and disease desistance. Because it's semi-magical I thought, well why not make him a universal donor! I also really enjoy the classic magic vs science interplay, often interpreted as wholly different spheres, or just different solutions to the same equation of the universe. As a result, there is no firm answer on which one of the treatments definitively stopped the plague. Maybe only all of them together could have done it.
> 
> I'm also enjoying the opportunity to write schmaltzy romance, which isn't always going to be slow burn, and will sometimes swerve in unexpected or expected directions. The Heir has never thought of other people in a sexual way before and is rather more shocked at this than the gibbous fish monsters because the former hits way closer to home. Again, it's obvious I'm really avoiding defining the Heir's gender, mostly because I enjoy the challenge and because I feel that some part of the Heir must remain a mystery while their journal gives voice to their innermost thoughts. Speaking of thoughts, Wayne June returns here to deliver what is one of my favorite Ancestor quotes because it is so dangerously seductive and permanent. The Heir is tied to the Estate now and every time they leave, the land will try to draw them back if they're away for long enough. I'm also really fudging the distances, doing back-of-the envelope calculations on riding distances, but hey it's my fanfic, things happen at the speed of plot, besides my notes. I've got a big gap there in between week 62 and week 90 where the adventurers finally conquer the first level of the darkest dungeon, so plenty of room to improvise. Crimson Court and Color of Madness will be different works if I can learn how to use AO3. Still haven't learned to do italics, tragedy.
> 
> Please let me know if there are things you like, hate, or look forward to seeing plot wise and in my writing. I know I use a lot of -ly words, I'm trying to just bite the bullet and use "X said" more often. You notice these chapters are getting longer the further I get from my notes. Good or bad, idk. It's More Content.


	9. Hardness and Strength: Death's Companions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hamlet begins to recover while the Heir does some personnel management.

Week 65 and 66 in the Year of Our Light 1554

I spent the night in the Sodden Wyrm, acting as if I was glad to be back in the Hamlet, as if the loss of three hundred and eight souls was of no great concern, on Carter's advice. Soldiers and townsfolk alike would come up to me, and I greeted each and every one like old friends with embraces, handshakes, and suggestions for what we could next do to improve the Hamlet. I slipped up the first few times and had inquired after the well-being of several children, the longtime graces my Mother installed in me doing far more harm in this benighted context. The upside to the ending of the plague was the Hamlet was now relatively flush with supplies, with a smaller population than the larder had been stocked to sustain. As a result, Morapio allowed the food and drink to flow freely though I felt the absence of his daughter keenly. Despite being a girl of ten summers, her good cheer and brisk management of the bar often made Morapio's muscles unnecessary save for the rowdiest drunk. An early incident with a very unfortunate spearman demonstrated how my mercenaries, headed by Dismas, would respond to seeing a child slapped to the floor. I had never asked where they had buried the body.

The Lonely Lep, who's true name I had yet to learn, had somehow survived both the dual contagions of leprosy and the Hag Fever, as the townsfolk began calling it. Carter later informed me that though he suffered far more than any other member of the Hamlet, he, like Reynauld, had refused to take to a sickbed in the Sanitarium, instead moving among the ill administering to them with clumsy, deadened fingers. Of our Great Crusader, there was not a glint of armor to be seen, though I was repeatedly assured he was alive. Tourney proved his worth than night, and for the rest of the following week, making appearances in the Wyrm nightly, and across the town square, strumming away with great vigor and cheer behind his mask. He'd paid attention to Aria's stories more than I had thought, for he opened that night with an original, frolicking tune that set the bar to stomping its feet so the very foundations shook. "The Pure Sweet Fat of the Hog" was one of several triumphant medleys he'd put together, including "A Fish's Wish" about the Siren that was rather bawdy, and "A Flying Heir" about my now infamous battle with the Collector across the spires of the palace. I'll admit, I grew fond of it.

"Oh were, oh where  
is our dear young Heir?  
There's just the one,  
no twin or pair.

Up there, up there,  
cried the maiden fair.  
He's up on the roof,  
flying through the air!

Oh dear oh dear,  
cried the worried Heir,  
even the King  
has started to stare!

Be-ware,be-ware!  
cried the maiden fair.  
Look out above,  
our dear young Heir!

Ou-ch! said the Heir,  
no longer fair,  
blue fire had singed  
and burnt their hair!

The Heir, the Heir,  
no longer fair.  
Stubborn as a bull,  
still stuck in the air!

Soon all of Paris  
turned to stare,  
at the flying skull  
and the fighting Heir.

The Heir, the Heir,  
no longer fair,  
went through the stone  
and glass with care.

The Heir, the Heir,  
dragged down the stair,  
tied up that skull,  
with arms all bare.

The Heir, the Heir,  
without a care  
stabbed that skull,  
in its wicked stare.

O Heir, O Heir,  
Cried the King most fair,  
This is a deed,  
indeed quite rare!

The Heir, the Heir,  
now mostly fair,  
lost their hand,  
still off to tear.

The Heir, the Heir,  
left that stair,  
riding Home,  
for his friends most rare.

The Heir, the Heir,  
still mostly fair,  
is back again  
so spooks, BEWARE!"

Tourney admitted he had forced some of the rhymes, but it didn't matter when I could hear it from three floors up, often bellowed out the windows in the general direction of the Ruins, and it made me smile every time. These people were too good to me. 

I spent the first few days with Carter, doing the rounds of the houses, stretching our now severely limited funds to the utmost. The Parisian credit houses I had been so friendly with before, sent their gifts back rather than risk the King's displeasure. Once received, I turned right around and sold them for more expeditionary funds. Yes, I had ordered for sallies to begin within the week, once I judged the Hamlet was sufficiently healthy that no one would start coughing up blood in the middle of a mission. The Beastblood Treatment, as Carter named it, performed very well, for we only had two cases of relapse, and they were citizens with habitually weak constitutions. I burned them that Wednesday, along with the remains of the Collector, once it became clear Reynauld was going to stay in his penitent cell until I searched him out. It may be petty, but I took a distinct satisfaction in watching that hateful robe blacken and curl in on itself as the flame devoured it.

Carter sent a positively massive envelope containing all the details, side effects, and viable treatments of the Hag Fever to her professors at the Institute de France, wherever that was, and held out hope the evidence of stopping an entire plague should have been enough for them to give her at least an honorary doctorate, if not the real thing. I included a smaller summary of events in my letters to Captain Hugo, who would presumably relay them to the King. I also included two heavy treasure chests full of gold that, based on many late-night calculations, amounted to our long-forgotten taxes to the Crown plus interest. However, the decimation of our ranks of nuns, priests, heroes, and scoundrels alike meant our expeditions grew less frequent and of greater importance. The new blood that trickled into the Hamlet were, for once, absent my helpful guidance and were sometimes shuffled into parties with skills and knowledge far beyond their own. The sign language we'd developed when sound became too dangerous in the tunnels was always learned fast and under pressure, but a fiasco in the Ruins with a fumbled gas grenade led to the deaths of two of the party and the dismissal of the surviving amateur. I woke up several times to discover I had fallen asleep at my desk, face glued to my parchments by drool or sealing wax. The life of an Heir was not always glamorous. 

I spent Saturday wearing a hole in the attic boards with my pacing, racking my brain in an attempt to come up with new sources of funding. The King had closed off my glass enterprise and Vulf had fled the country, but good riddance to bad rubbish on that front. We were still pulling gold from the ruins, but not nearly enough to cover the expenses of the Estate. I had been keeping track of them scrupulously in my account-book, but even then, we were lucky to break even. With a sigh, I abandoned the enterprise and went down the stairs to walk amongst the Hamlet. A little fresh air did wonders for the mind.

As it turned out, Vivana, the young Gypsy merchant who'd set up shop in the town square waved me down the moment I stepped out of the Sodden Wyrm. I hailed her in kind as she took my proffered arm. 

"Oh love, you really must do something with that hair of yours, it is simply a crime, a crime, that you cut it so short these days."

"Why even attempt comparison with such an exquisite woman?"

She looked away, but I wasn't fooled by the false modesty for a moment. 

"Dear Vivana, as a businesswoman yourself, I must beg your ear for a turn. I must confess I find myself at quite a loss as to our next move."

Her voice was light as we turned onto the side-lane between the Guild and the Blacksmith's comparatively tiny shop, but we both knew what I was confessing. She was the one selling trinkets to more than half the Hamlet and I valued her opinion on financial matters far more than even the Caretaker, who was always swamped with things to do. I was once again visibly reminded of my Father, hunched over in his study with his own vast book of business, a banker and a lawyer attending to him like supplicants seeking a favor. And here I was, heading down an alley with a Gypsy woman, not for any clandestine rendezvous but for financial advice. If we attached a dynamo to his grave, it would power the Mill for months.

"You mean in regards to your swiftly-emptying coffers? I'd noticed you drinking rather less, but I know little of the matters of Nobles."

"From what I can tell, the difference lies only in scale, not complexity."

"Those are the same thing, love. Distance and time are factors all their own. I once neglected to pack a barrel of sardines with salt when my cousin Gerold had need of them, and they arrived rotted and stinking all the way to the Light. Your Occultists keep asking for powders from the Barbaray coast and It's dangerous business trading with pirates, especially by letter. So the prices have been comparatively exorbitant."

"But I gave you those surplus wagons last fall to expand your reach, hire more of your family, assuming they work at all. Did that not allow your to bring in more, drive the prices down by buying in bulk?"

She shot me a glare, but I wasn't sure what I'd said that had offended. She'd introduced her very, very large extended family, who passed through the Hamlet three times a year, and always with a great deal of commotion. There had been a sore spot last time when her uncle, a man always perpetually chewing on something, turned up with half a dozen of the mercenaries pocketbooks in his possession. Morapio had dragged the thief to me, and I'd cut off an ear in the square as a warning. Perhaps she was still sore because of that. If the man had kept his thieving fingers to himself, the Hamlet as a whole would be less suspicious of his family. I kept going in the face of Vivana's stony silence.

"Regardless, I find myself at a loss for new sustainable sources of income, now that the banks are refusing to lend me any money. Dismas suggested selling the paintings we keep finding up there," I gestured to the Warrens, "but bringing them all the way to the larger cities would be a wretched job."

She tapped her fingers on my forearm, lost in thought as we reached the end of the street and turned left into the back alley, which opened into the Guild's training yard.

"You're thinking too hard on it, my love." I breathed easier. Vivana was back to being friendly, or pretending to be, always cultivating an air of quick anger and hard bargains masked by her demure and stunning looks.

"How so?"

"I have had no need of bankers, no need to sell paintings or jewels to keep my comfort. Does your Crusader not carry in vast armfuls of gold every chance he gets? Why not simply use that?"

I perked up. I could claw back Reynauld's significant gold stores, but that would be tantamount to dismissing him outright, and he would never forgive me. But if they were offered freely...Even then, that lump sum would only buy us three weeks of operation at most, not the six months I needed. 

"I had to send a great deal of our gold back to Paris. In all the commotion, we forgot to pay the King's taxes last year, and there are now a great many people in the Hamlet to be taxed."

She sniffed in disdain. "I do not pay taxes either. Why give more, to those who already have so much, living in palaces?"

"When you owe them your loyalty and life. You may travel a great deal, but remember, these roads are kept safe by my House, and my House kept safe by the King, who keeps France safe from her many foes."

"Like the Church of Blood, the Italians, and the Hugenots?" she returned acidly.

I dropped her hand. "Let's not get into politics. We never agree on anything."

"Quite right." she turned away and leaned on the fence of the training yard. "You insist on a system that is stripping you as bare as the trees in winter."

"And you don't protect anything!" I retorted, perhaps more heated than necessary. That had hit a bit too close to home. "All you care about is yourself and your four-fingered friends!"

Whatever she was going to say, which no doubt would have started a truly titanic argument, Tourney's bell-clear voice cut her off.

"Rose Hips? Rose Hips of the Rudari?"

Vivana's mouth dropped open. "Jingles?"

The jester sprinted from the open Guildhall and launched himself over the fence, spinning the Gypsy woman into a waltz, the bells on his shoe caps and hat tinkling in merriment.

She asked first. "How are you here!"

"Got in a spot of trouble with Il Principe de Calazzo, how did you? Last I heard, you were heading north, I thought you'd be Queen of the Vinlanders by now!"

The trinket-seller's eyes sparkled, and she swung him around, continuing the dance as I looked on in bemusement, the anger draining away to be replaced by confusion.

"Oh, it was much too cold, the climate didn't agree with my usual habits. And I somehow ended up with even more suitors than usual up there, all kinds trying to 'make an honest woman of me'." Her eyes shot to me for a moment, but the jester didn't notice.

"They're far too late, you're the most honest woman in all the Roma!"

"Not a high standard." I muttered under my breath. 

"Oh, Jingles you do flatter me. Now let me see your face, it's been so long!"  
She made to pull his cap off, but his hand sprang up and caught her wrist, pulling slightly away as they spun to a halt in the middle of the yard.

"You don't want to see." he said. "Keep your memory of me, not what I look like now."  
His voice softened. "Please."

She looked into the eyes of his mask and slowly, giving him plenty of time to pull away, lifted the mask off. Tourney closed his eyes in resignation and in the light from the windows his scars stood out in sharp relief, making his face a mountain range of crags and valleys of scar tissue. The mask fell to the dirt, Vivana's hands around her mouth in horror.

"Oh, Tourney." she breathed.

The look on the Jester's face was worse than when we'd operated on him. I winced and tried to blend into the bales of hay behind me. This wasn't something I should be here to see, but Vivana, as always, surprised me.

Once her shock had subsided, she reached out and took the Jester's head in both hands, running her thumbs across his cheeks, drawing him close.  
"What did they do to you?"

The jester took a heaving breath just short of a sob. "The climate didn't agree with me either, so I altered it. A few more storm clouds there now, less harsh winds. You were right to leave when you did."

Another pause. 

"I should have gone with you."

She shook her head fiercely. "I should have stayed! I wish-"

"And who's this?"

The door to the Guild had opened again to show Aria wrestling her crossbow through the doorframe, with Tourney's sickle stuck through her belt. She looked at the jester and the Gypsy embracing and her sniper's eye caught site of me, standing in the general vicinity of a pile of hay I was certainly not hiding behind. To her credit, Vivana rallied immediately, offering her hand, which Aria shook in a soldier's greeting.

"I'm Vivana, love. I sold you that bandanna in February, remember? My humble carriage in the square?"

"She's an old friend," added Tourney, taking his cap back from her unresisting hand and pulling it over his face once more. "We met in Italy and found our skills matched well together. She wanted to set up a traveling circus, of all things, but we couldn't spring for the giraffes."

Aria had heard enough of Tourney's exaggerations to look to the Gypsy, but she nodded, to my surprise.  
"I nearly had the whole menagerie ready to go, but it was a package deal to fund his war with your Frenchmen and the Prince couldn't bear to part with his giraffes, long-necked trouble-makers, they were."  
She gestured to Aria's crossbow.  
"A sharpshooter, truly? You would have made a fine addition love, kept people cheering right along."

For her part, Aria's caution was melting away as she looked back and forth between Tourney and his old companion.  
"You really think so? They wouldn't've minded?" she gestured to all of her, armor, hair, gender, things that the rest of France despised her for.  
I had never been so grateful the Hamlet had more pressing, chittering priorities.

"Of course they would love, that's what a circus is! People come to gawk at the spectacle of it all, the unexpectedness of foreigners come to liven up their lives between harvests! They'd be talking about us for months, but invite us back all the same. Why, there was one girl I helped, a tiny snip really, who could do the strangest thing with some black feathers-"

I edged away and slipped around the corner, exhaling a sigh of relief. They'd be chattering away in that yard until the sun had gone down. In the meantime, I needed to have a difficult conversation with Reynauld. One thing was for sure, I reflected as I nearly tripped on a spear. Tourney definitely enjoyed the company of dark-haired women.

___________

I arrived at the Abbey with great reluctance and only the knowledge I couldn't keep putting it off was enough to push me into the Church proper. I saw the white-cloaked form of the Lonely Lep lighting candles in one of the naves, but otherwise the main hall was deserted. Allowing him his time with the Light, I turned down a side passage and wound down the stairs, passing the Abbott's own cell to the ones allotted to whichever soldiers or citizens felt the need to brood, or commune with the Light, whichever. 

The first keyhole I peeked through showed the ragged form of the "Man-Eater", fingers moving through a circle of prayer beads and murmuring one of the many Catechisms of the Light. I left him to it and pressed on. Reynauld was in the second one, fully prostrated on the floor in front of a statue of the Redemption of Saint Judas. The artist had rendered the beam of light piercing him in shining white quartz, while a hidden fountain caused tears to pour down his face and robes, where they collected in a basin below. Reynauld washed his head three times with the bowl's water and sat back on his knees.

I took the opportunity to enter, bowing first to the statue, then to Reynauld. "Commander."

"My Heir...I did not expect to see you so soon."

"It's been nearly a week since my return Reynauld. Have you truly been hiding here all this time from my wrath?"

"Oh?" He seemed surprised at the news. "My apologies, My Heir. I truly hadn't noticed."

I contemplated kneeling alongside Reynauld, but the floor was very hard. Disregarding the sanctity of the space, I sat, crossing my legs in front of me, hands on knees. An open, deliberately nonthreatening posture.

"It seems you missed a great deal while I was in Paris, Reynauld. Missing children, The Collector still alive in that bag you sent, but then a plague does tend to distract one's thoughts."

"What?"

I took a deep breath, fighting my rising anger, though the robe-clad Crusader still seemed genuinely confused. Carter mentioned he'd been delirious, perhaps it still had not worn off.

"I am speaking of the three hundred and eight members of this Hamlet, who I left in your charge, now drifting on the breeze as victims of the Hag's Curse. I did not expect you to smite a disease with your sword, but I expected more proactive action from you Reynauld. And your declaration of the Light Itself as your curative of choice invites religious strife this Hamlet cannot afford."

"With all due respect, My Heir, Junia and I spent a considerable amount of time bringing Abbott Gregory and Chaplain Grimmaldus together to present a united front against this witchery. I would say the potential for disagreement has lessened, if anything." he murmured.

"I am not speaking of strife in the Hamlet, Crusader. I can handle such petty factionalism. What I cannot handle is the Dauphin of France tearing us down because he thinks we're trying to poke our nose into the politics of the Church of Light. Apparently Grimmaldus somehow convinced the rest of his bloody flagellants that I'm the second dawning of the Light."

"He said nothing of this!"

"He's a taciturn man, but his fellows have been speaking glowingly of me from every street corner and pulpit in France. Add that to the Abbey of the Flame losing vestals and monks to Junia's-"

I paused. I wasn't actually sure what Junia's organization really was. It had no formal name, as far as I knew, and precious little organization to speak of, save Junia harping on every one of her scribes and Sisters so frequently I was sure she'd be the subject of one of Tourney's songs within the solstice. I noticed Reynauld's bearded face was waiting, expectantly for me to continue. I was glad, for I was not in the mood to be interrupted.

"Organization, whatever it is. It's unsettled the Church and in the context of His Majesty's war against the Huguenots and Italians, they are pressuring him to disavow me, and the entire House Euthonian."

"I will write to the Bishop of Paris he served with me in the Constantine campaign and has many friends still there. Outreach from across the sea could help."

I shook my head, allowing a fond look at him. Even knowing how deep he was in it, he was always ready to help, to offer suggestions. It was what made him such a capable commander.

"I already spoke with him, and he had many fine things to say about you, but I dare not risk it." I took a deep breath, driving to the heart of the matter.  
"The King has placed an execution date above our heads, above my House. He gave us three years to wipe the Dungeon from the face of France and then he would decide our fate. At the moment, he is willing to execute my entire House, and likely all those who stand with me."

Reynauld's mouth dropped open. "He would never dare, the other Noble Houses would rally to protect their rights! It would be civil war."

"He already thinks my House and our small army is fomenting rebellion to keep me in power against other members of the Family, remember? No, the other Houses would not aid us, they are involved in their own schemes. And several were friendly with my Ancestor."

He caught the meaning and nodded. "What stayed his hand? Didn't Dismas have powerful friends in the Capital?"

"Not that powerful. That one's run off to Muscovy, apparently, leaving us with no market for our jewels. And the King made his point about the Euthonians by imprisoning my brother and mother. The merchant married to my cousin is dead, likely by his order, and our trade routes destroyed, so that's another market gone."

Reynauld rose to his feet and threw off his robe, ignoring modesty in favor his breeches and armor stacked in the corner. I saw fresh scars on his chest and whip marks on his back. So that was how he'd gotten Grimmaldus to listen to him.

"But why didn't he execute you? You still haven't answered."

"That, Commander," I said with venom, "depends entirely on how you managed to bind the Collector, stuff it in a sack, and send it with Aria to Paris, with instructions to show it to the King. One of its shrunken heads, yes, that I could understand, but the creature itself? Were you mad? It burnt half the King's guard, nearly collapsed the Palace, and dropped killer skulls across the entire city of Paris!"

I waved my arm, displaying the still-wrapped stump. "Now the secrets of the Estate are out, because all of Paris saw me getting dragged across the skyline by the King in Yellow! It's an absolute disaster and you've made it worse by hiding in here instead of confronting me like a man about it. Am I not your Heir? Do I not deserve the respect and honesty you gave to your own commanders?"

Reynauld had stopped, one arm half-clad in chainmail, armored from the waist down.

"Aria?"

"Yes, you dolt! Did you get hit in the head stumbling around in the Weald? She rode day and night, while sick herself, to get the information and your 'generous proof' to me! She's at the Guild right now!"

The chainmail dropped to the floor and Reynauld was there, grasping my shoulders.

"My Heir, Aria is dead. Don't you remember? She breached the Dungeon with Sam, and never came back out."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now we get to the juicy bits! You lot probably thought I had made a mistake, having Aria be the one to come riding to Paris. Just As Planned! 
> 
> Anti-Roma sentiment was very widespread in the Middle Ages and still is today in Europe. While the stereotypes have the Roma as perpetual drunkards, child-stealers, and thieves, their nomadic lifestyle and communal attitudes make many suspicious of them. Some of that was warranted, I had a Romani woman try to pick my pocket a few years ago while pretending to give me back a ring I "dropped", but blanket prejudice isn't right either. Even with the Heir's prejudices and method of public punishment, the outcast Roma are still getting off lightly. In one instance there was an edict in Central Europe that said those who killed "Gypsies" had committed no crime. After several yearly massacres, the edict was amended to exclude women and children, which was a cold comfort to the survivors. Sad stuff. Some may argue that I've been leaning on the prejudice of the times for unneeded angst or drama, but it was a real thing and to deny it ever existed, even in an idealized, permissive world of the Hamlet, would be to ignore history as it was in favor of the history we want. 
> 
> The Heir is not going to magically unlearn any of their numerous prejudices, which they still have plenty of, but continuous exposure to the cosmopolitan nature of the Hamlet and the increased desperation of needed fighters will at least get them to confine their bigotry to the confines of their mind. Vivana and the Heir have always had a clear-eyed working relationship and she's the one who really understands the wider logistics of the Middle Ages while the Heir remains focused on the comparatively simple idea of "bottom line number go up". I also wanted to emphasize there are other kinds of strength beyond merely the martial kind so exemplified by the adventurers. Vivana's had a bad life and still puts on a cheery front and attitude for everyone, both as a defense mechanism and as a way to convince herself that things are in fact good, same as Tourney, except he enjoys it a bit more. I also added in Vivana's clan name to Tourney's dialogue as a nod to her origins and to indicate how close they were. 
> 
> I'll admit, I'm not good at this songwriting, but it's fun to throw one together. Don't expect gobs of them, but one might pop up at some point. 
> 
> Reynauld also very clearly had his own adventures while the Heir was away, but I don't think it's necessary to go into too much detail. I also again point out the little discrepancies with Carter's Institut de France, and now especially with Aria.


End file.
